MRS.    LEICESTER'S    SCHOOL 


OTHER  WRITINGS   IN   PROSE  AND  VERSE 


MRS.    LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL 

AND 

OTHER  WRITINGS  IN   PROSE  AND  VERSE 

BY 

CHARLES     LAMB 


WITH    INTRODUCTION    AND    NOTES    BY 

ALFRED   AINGER 


NEW   YORK  : 

A.  C.  ARMSTRONG  &  SON, 

714  BROADWAY. 

1886. 


INTRODUCTION. 

IN  addition  to  the  Stories  for  Children  with  which  it 
opens,  the  present  volume  contains  a  selection  from 
various  prose  papers  of  Lamb's,  printed  in  his  lifetime, 
but  not  collected  into  book-form  until  long  after  his  death. 
It  was  an  enthusiastic  lover  of  Charles  Lamb  in  the 
United  States  to  whom  is  due  the  credit  of  searching 
for  and  identifying  his  many  outlying  contributions  to 
periodical  literature,  and  this  gentleman  has  as  yet  received 
scant  justice  from  Lamb's  editors  in  this  country. 

It  was  in  the  year  1863  that  the  late  Mr.  J.  E.  Babson 
of  Chelsea,  U.S.,  began  publishing  in  the  pages  of  the 
Atlantic  Monthly  Magazine  a  series  of  Lamb's  papers 
and  essays  that  had  remained  apparently  unrecognised 
in  the  various  magazines  and  newspapers  where  they 
originally  appeared.  In  prosecuting  his  researches  Mr. 
Babson  afterwards  received  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Alexander 
Ireland  of  Manchester,  whose  knowledge  of  the  writings 
of  Lamb  and  Lamb's  intimate  friends  is  probably  greater 
than  that  of  any  other  Englishman.  The  series  was  re- 
issued by  Mr.  Babson  at  Boston  in  the  following  year, 
under  the  title  of  "  Eliana,  being  the  hitherto  uncollected 
writings  of  Charles  Lamb."  The  volume  was  at  once 
reprinted  in  England,  and,  I  believe,  without  any  recog- 
nition of  its  origin,  or  the  labours  of  Mr.  Babson.  During 
the  twenty  years  that  have  elapsed,  a  few  fresh  pieces  by 
Lamb  have  been  identified  and  added  to  Mr.  Babson's 
collection,  and  have  appeared  in  various  English  editions. 
The  shorter  prose  papers  in  the  present  volume  are  there- 


vi  INTRODUCTION. 

fore,  for  the  most  part,  from  Mr.  Babson's  volume,  but 
in  every  case  they  have  been  compared  with  the  originals 
in  Leigh  Hunt's  Periodicals,  Hone's  Tablebooks,  and  other 
publications  to  which  they  were  first  contributed. 

While  gratefully  acknowledging  my  obligation  to  Mr. 
Babson,  I  have  not  been  able  to  adopt  his  theory  of  the 
responsibilities  of  an  editor.  "  The  admirers  of  Elia,"  he 
boldly  declares  in  the  preface  to  his  volume,  "  want  to 
possess  every  scrap  and  fragment  of  his  inditing.  They 
cannot  let  oblivion  have  the  least  '  notelet '  or  '  essay- 
kin  '  of  his."  I  hope  that  I  may  still  be  reckoned  among 
the  admirers  of  Elia,  though  I  refuse  assent  to  this  pro- 
position. The  truth  is,  that  every  writer  of  mark  leaves 
behind  him  shreds  and  remnants  of  stuff,  some  of  which 
are  characteristic  and  worthy  of  preservation,  and  some 
are  otherwise ;  and  it  is,  in  my  deliberate  opinion,  an 
injustice  to  any  such  writer  to  dilute  his  reputation  by 
publishing  every  scrap  of  writing  that  he  is  known  to 
have  produced,  merely  because  the  necessity  of  making 
a  choice  may  expose  the  editor  to  the  risk  of  censure. 

I  have  ventured,  then,  to  omit  some  half  dozen  prose 
pieces  that  have  appeared  in  the  recent  editions  of  Lamb's 
complete  works.  In  the  first  place,  there  are  among 
these  certain  fragments,  which  were  left  fragments  not 
by  accident,  but  because  Lamb  tired  of  his  task  or  found 
he  had  misconceived  his  powers.  He  began  a  story 
called  Juice  Judkins,  and  wrote  only  a  single  chapter. 
He  began  turning  into  prose,  under  the  title  of  "The 
Defeat  of  Time,"  Thomas  Hood's  graceful  poem,  the  Plea 
of  the  Midsummer  Fairies,  but  left  it  half  finished.  He 
once  produced  a  weak  string  of  conceits  on  an  unsavoury 
subject,  called  A  Vision  of  Horns,  of  which  he  confessed 
himself,  in  a  letter  to  a  correspondent,  thoroughly  ashamed, 
and  which  it  would  have  cut  him  to  the  quick  to  think 
might  be  permanently  associated  with  his  name.  Again, 
most  recent  editions  have  included  a  letter  of  the  poet 
Thomson's,  which  Lamb  had  discovered  in  a  newspaper 
of  the  last  century  and  published  in  the  London  Magazine. 


INTRODUCTION.  vii 

As  the  letter  has  long  ago  been  included  in  standard 
biographies  of  Thomson  (for  instance,  the  one  prefixed  to 
the  Aldine  Edition  of  his  poems)  there  seems  to  be  no 
possible  reason  for  reprinting  it  once  more.  A  version 
in  prose  of  the  story  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  tragedy, 
Cupid's  Revenge,  and  a  farce,  called  The  Pawnbroker's 
Daughter,  based  upon  one  of  Lamb's  early  essays  in 
Leigh  Hunt's  Reflector,  I  have  also  accepted  the  responsi- 
bility of  omitting. 

In  taking  this  course  I  have  not  acted  merely  upon 
personal  preference,  but  on  a  principle  that  I  think  may 
be  claimed  as  sound.  I  have  not  willingly  excluded  any 
fragment,  however  short,  which  exhibited  Lamb's  peculiar 
vein  of  humour  or  his  unique  faculty  of  criticism.  No 
lack  of  these  will  be  found  in  the  shorter  papers  here 
given.  I  would  poiut  to  the  remarks  on  De  Foe's 
Secondary  Novels  and  on  Wordsworth's  Excursion;  to  the 
delightful  autobiographical  details  in  Captain  Starkey; 
to  the  comments  on  the  acting  of  Miss  Kelly  and  Dowton  ; 
to  the  amazing  parody  on  a  certain  well-known  style  of 
polite  biography  in  the  imaginary  memoir  of  Liston ;  to 
the  rare  and  almost  Shakspearian  vein  of  imagination  in 
the  speculation  on  the  Religion  of  Actors,  with  its  wonder- 
ful image  of  Munden  "making  mouths  at  the  invisible 
event ;"  and  lastly,  to  the  noble  tenderness  of  parts  of  the 
letter  to  Southey,  and,  above  all,  to  the  pathetic  words 
upon  the  death  of  Coleridge.  We  should  be  the  poorer 
iu  our  knowledge  and  appreciation  of-  Charles  Lamb 
without  these  and  other  side-lights  upon  his  mind  and 
character. 

The  two  contributions  to  Godwin's  Library  for  Children 
which  open  the  volume  have  been  often  reprinted  since 
their  first  appearance  early  iu  the  century.  The  Story  of 
Ulysses  was  probably  the  first  serious  attempt  to  give 
literary  form  to  the  finest  of  the  world's  fairy  tales,  for 
the  benefit  of  the  young.  In  passing  through  Lamb's 
hands  the  classic  touch  must  inevitably  have  given  place 
to  the  romantic,  and  it  was  therefore  a  gain,  rather  than 


Vlii  INTRODUCTION. 

the  reverse,  that  he  should  have  chiefly  used  the  version 
of  George  Chapman,  whose  fine  Elizabethan  cadence  may 
everywhere  be  traced.  Perhaps  the  A  dventures  f  Ulysses 
may  yet  again  one  day  be  found  among  the  standard 
books  of  the  nursery.  It  certainly  seems  a  pity  that 
incidents,  characters,  and  images  that  are  part  of  the 
current  coin  of  the  world's  intercourse  should  not  become 
familiar  in  the  years  when  imagination  is  keenest  and 
freshest. 

I  make  no  apology  for  printing  Mrs.  Leicester's  School 
as  a  whole.  Three  of  the  stories  composing  it  are  by 
Charles  Lamb,  the  others  by  his  sister.  He  always 
loyally  upheld  the  superior  value  of  his  sister's  contribu- 
tion ;  and  indeed  she  exhibits  in  them  qualities  of 
humour  and  observation  quite  as  notable  as  any  corre- 
sponding gift  of  her  brother's.  "  It  is  now  several  days," 
wrote  Walter  Savage  Landor  to  Crabb  Robinson  in  1831, 
"  since  I  read  the  book  you  recommended  to  me — Mrs. 
Leicester's  School — and  I  feel  as  if  I  owed  a  debt  in 
deferring  to  thank  you  for  many  hours  of  exquisite 
delight.  Never  have  I  read  anything  in  prose  so  many 
times  over,  within  so  short  a  space  of  time,  as  The 
Father's  Wedding -Day.  Most  people,  I  understand, 
prefer  the  first  tale — in  truth  a  very  admirable  one — but 
others  could  have  written  it.  Show  me  the  man  or 
woman,  modern  or  ancient,  who  could  have  written  this 
one  sentence — '  When  I  was  dressed  in  my  new  frock  I 
wished  poor  mamma  was  alive,  to  see  how  fine  I  was  on 
papa's  wedding-day ;  and  I  ran  to  my  favourite  station 
at  her  bedroom  door.'  How  natural  in  a  little  girl  is 
this  incongruity — this  impossibility  !  Richardson  would 
have  given  his  Clarissa  and  Rousseau  his  Hdoise  to 
have  imagined  it.  A  fresh  source  of  the  pathetic  bursts 
out  before  us,  and  not  a  bitter  one.  If  your  Germans 
can  show  us  anything  comparable  to  what  I  have  tran- 
scribed, I  would  almost  undergo  a  year's  gurgle  of  their 
language  for  it.  The  story  is  admirable  throughout — 
incomparable,  inimitable  ! " 


INTRODUCTION.  ix 

Of  course  we  recognise  here  Lander's  well-known 
accent  of  extravagant  generosity,  but  he  was  not  losing 
his  critical  balance.  And  there  are  others  of  Mary 
Lamb's  stories  that  he  might  have  instanced  with 
enthusiasm.  The  Young  Mahometan,  delightful  for  its 
renewed  memories  of  Blakesware  House,  abounds  in 
felicities  of  phrase.  The  little  girl,  spending  lonely 
hours  in  the  library  of  the  old  mansion,  finds  a  volume 
called  Mahometanism  Explained,  and  greedily  devours  it. 
"  The  book  said  that  those  who  believed  all  the  wonder- 
ful stories  which  were  related  of  Mahomet  were  called 
Mahometans  and  True  Believers; — I  concluded  that  I 
must  be  a  Mahometan,  for  I  believed  every  word  I  read." 
The  child  broods  over  her  newly-discovered  revelation, 
and  yearns  that  her  near  relatives  should  awake  to  the 
truth.  She  becomes  so  feverish  with  excitement  that 
her  mother  comes  to  sleep  in  her  room.  "  In  the  middle 
of  the  night  I  could  not  resist  the  strong  desire  I  felt  to 
tell  her  what  preyed  so  on  my  mind.  I  awoke  her  out 
of  a  sound  sleep,  and  begged  she  would  be  so  kind  as  to  be 
a  Mahometan"  This  is  exquisite ;  even  more  so  are 
the  particulars  that  follow  of  the  doctor  who  was  called 
in,  to  whom  the  case  was,  however,  new,  "he  never 
having  attended  a  little  Mahometan  before."  The 
sagacious  old  doctor  is  not,  however,  baffled,  but  carries 
off  the  young  lady  to  spend  a  few  days  with  himself  and 
his  wife,  that  he  may  study  the  case  at  leisure.  "  In  a 
few  days  he  fetched  me  away.  His  wife  was  in  the 
carriage  with  him.  Having  heard  what  he  said  about 
her  prescriptions,  I  expected,  between  the  doctor  and  his 
lady,  to  undergo  a  severe  course  of  medicine,  especially 
as  I  heard  him  very  formally  ask  her  advice  what  was 
good  for  a  Mahometan  fever,  the  moment  after  he  had 
handed  me  into  the  carriage.  She  studied  a  little  while, 
and  then  she  said  a  ride  to  Harlow  Fair  would  not  be 
amiss.  He  said  he  was  entirely  of  her  opinion,  because  it 
suited  him  to  go  there  to  buy  a  horse."  The  Mahometan 
fever,  as  the  reader  will  anticipate,  soon  passes  away. 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

It  is  the  sweet  humour  of  Steele  and  Goldsmith  that 
is  here  manifest,  and  the  old-fashioned  formality  of  some 
of  the  writing,  due  to  the  example  of  Richardson  and 
his  school,  need  be  no  obstacle  to  these  stories  keeping 
their  place  among  the  cherished  v.olumes  of  the  nursery. 
Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke  tells  us  how  she  once  heard  Charles 
Lamb  address  his  sister,  "with  his  peculiar  mood  of 
tenderness  beneath  blunt,  abrupt  speech — 'You  must 
die  first,  Mary.'  She  nodded  with  her  little  quiet  nod 
and  sweet  smile:  'Yes,  I  must  die  first,  Charles.'"  It 
was  ordered  otherwise,  as  we  know ;  but  in  the  history 
of  faithful  love  and  duty,  as  well  as  in  that  of  English 
literature,  there  will  be  no  survivorship.  Should  Charles 
and  Mary  Lamb  ever  die  from  the  memories  of  men,  it 
will  be  on  the  self-same  day. 

In  bringing  to  a  conclusion  this  collection  of  Lamb's 
writings,  to  be  followed,  as  I  hope,  by  a  uniform  edition 
of  his  correspondence,  I  have  once  more  to  thank  the 
many  friends  who  have  aided  me  by  information  and 
suggestion,  and  notably  Mr.  Alexander  Ireland,  who  never 
wearies  in  the  service  of  literary  good-fellowship,  and 
whose  great  knowledge  of  Lamb's  contemporaries  has 
been  continually  of  advantage  to  me. 


ALFRED  AINGER. 


TOR  CASTLE,  FORT- WILLIAM, 
August  1885. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL  ....        1 

The  Sailor  Uncle         .....         5 

The  Farmhouse           .  .            .             .             .15 

The  Changeling           .  .             .             .             .22 

The  Father's  Wedding-Day  .             .            .             .42 

The  Young  Mahometan  .            .             ...       46 

Visit  to  the  Cousins    .  .            .            .            .54 

*The  Witch  Aunt         .  .             .             .            .64 

The  Merchant's  Daughter  .             .            .             .71 

*First  Going  to  Church  .            .             .             .75 

*The  Sea- Voyage           .  .             .             .            .82 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES      .  .  .  .89 

GUY  FAUX  .  .  .  .  .  .180 

ON  THE  AMBIGUITIES  ARISING  FROM  PROPER  NAMES       .     190 
ON  THE  CUSTOM  OF  HISSING  AT  THE  THEATRES   .  .     192 

THE  GOOD  CLERK,  A  CHARACTER  .  .  .     200 

THE  REYNOLDS  GALLERY  .....     207 

WORDSWORTH'S  "  EXCURSION  "     ....     210 

THEATRICAL  NOTICES        .....     225 

*  The  tales  marked  with  an  asterisk  are  by  Charles  Lamb  ; 
the  others  by  his  sister  Mary. 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

PACK 

FIRST  FRUITS  OF  AUSTRALIAN  POETRY  .  .  .  235 

THE  GENTLE  GIANTESS  .....  238 

ON  A  PASSAGE  IN  "THE  TEMPEST"  .  .  .  242 
LETTER  TO  AN  OLD  GENTLEMAN  WHOSE  EDUCATION  HAS 

BEEN  NEGLECTED        .....  246 

BIOGRAPHICAL  MEMOIR  OF  MR.  LISTON    .            .            .  253 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  MR.  MUNDEN            .           .            .  262 

REFLECTIONS  IN  THE  PILLORY      ....  266 

THE  LAST  PEACH  ......  271 

THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DEFUNCT          ...            .  274 

THE  RELIGION  OF  ACTORS  .  .  .  .281 

THE  MONTHS         .            ...            .            .            .  285 

REMINISCENCE  OF  SIR  JEFFERY  DUNSTAN           .            .  290 

CAPTAIN  STARKEY            .....  293 

THE  Ass     .            .            .            .            .            .            .  298 

IN  RE  SQUIRRELS  ......  302 

ESTIMATE  OF  DEFOE'S  SECONDARY  NOVELS          .            .  304 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  LATE  ROYAL  ACADEMICIAN            .  307 

REMARKABLE  CORRESPONDENT     ....  315 

THE  HUMBLE  PETITION  OF  AN  UNFORTUNATE  DAY         .  318 

MRS.  GlLPIN  RIDING  TO  EDMONTON           .             .             .  320 
SATURDAY  NIGHT     .        .            .            .            .            .322 

THOUGHTS  ON  PRESENTS  OF  GAME  .  .  .  325 
A  POPULAR  FALLACY,  THAT  A  DEFORMED  PERSON  is  A 

LORD  .  .  .  .  .  .  .328 

CHARLES  LAMB'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY            .            .            .  331 

LETTER  OF  ELIA  TO  ROBERT  SOUTHEY,  ESQ.         .            .  333 

TABLE-TALK  AND  FRAGMKNTS  OF  CRITICISM        .            .  348 

ELIA  TO  HIS  CORRESPONDENTS      ....  361 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  COLERIDGE  .  365 


CONTENTS.  XlH 

PROLOGUES,  EPILOGUES,  AND  MISCELLANEOUS 
TERSE. 

PAGK 

PROLOGUE  TO  COLERIDGE'S  "REMORSE"  .            .            .  3t>7 

PROLOGUE  TO  GODWIN'S  "ANTONIO "       .            .            .  369 

PROLOGUE  TO  GODWIN'S  "  FAULKENER"  .            .            .  371 

EPILOGUE  TO  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES'  "  WIFE  "       .            .  372 

To  THOMAS  STOTHARD,  R.A.         .            .            .            .  373 

To  CLARA  N.  .  .  .  .  .373 

To  MY  FRIEND  THE  INDICATOR     ....  374 

SAINT  CRISPIN  TO  MR.  GIFFORD   ....  374 

ON  HAYDON'S  PICTURE  OF  CHRIST'S  ENTRY  INTO  JERU- 
SALEM    .......  375 

TRANSLATION         ......  375 

POLITICAL  SQUIBS,   EPIGRAMS,  ETC. 

To  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH          .  .  .  .377 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  THE  WHALE      ....     377 

THE  THREE  GRAVES          .....     379 

EPIGRAM  WRITTEN  IN  THE  LAST  REIGN    .  .  .     379 

LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  A  SlGHT  OF  WALTHAM  CROSS         .     380 
"ONE  DIP"  .  .  .  .  .  .380 

SATAN  IN  SEARCH  OF  A  WIFE  381 


MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL: 

OK, 

THE  HISTORY  OF  SEVERAL  YOUSG  LADIES, 

BELATED   BY   THEMSELVES. 

Dedication, 

TO  THE 

YOUNG  LADIES  AT  AMWELL  SCHOOL. 

MY  DEAR  YOUXG  FRIENDS, — Though  released  from  the 
business  of  the  school,  the  absence  of  your  governess 
confines  me  to  Amwell  during  the  vacation.  I  cannot 
better  employ  my  leisure  hours  than  in  contributing  to 
the  amusement  of  you,  my  kind  pupils,  who,  by  your 
affectionate  attentions  to  my  instructions,  have  rendered 
a  life  of  labour  pleasant  to  me. 

On  your  return  to  school  I  hope  to  have  a  fair  copy, 
ready  to  present  to  each  of  you,  of  your  own  biographical 
conversations  last  winter. 

Accept  my  thanks  for  the  approbation  you  were  pleased 
to  express  when  I  offered  to  become  your  amanuensis. 
I  hope  you  will  find  I  have  executed  the  office  with  a 
tolerably  faithful  pen,  as  you  know  I  took  notes  each  day 
during  those  conversations,  and  arranged  my  materials 
after  you  were  retired  to  rest. 

I  begin  from  the  day  our  school  commenced.  It  was 
opened  by  your  governess  for  the  first  time  on  the 

*  B 


2  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

day  of  February.  I  pass  over  your  several  arrivals  on 
the  morning  of  that  day.  Your  governess  received  you 
from  your  friends  in  her  own  parlour. 

Every  carriage  that  drove  from  the  door  I  knew  had 
left  a  sad  heart  behind.  Your  eyes  were  red  with  weep- 
ing, when  your  governess  introduced  me  to  you  as  the 
teacher  she  had  engaged  to  instruct  you.  She  next  desired 
me  to  show  you  into  the  room  which  we  now  call  the 
playroom.  "  The  ladies,  "  said  she,  "  may  play  and  amuse 
themselves,  and  be  as  happy  as  they  please  this  evening, 
that  they  may  be  well  acquainted  with  each  other  before 
they  enter  the  schoolroom  to-morrow  morning." 

The  traces  of  tears  were  on  every  cheek,  and  I  also 
was  sad ;  for  I,  like  you,  had  parted  from  my  friends, 
and  the  duties  of  my  profession  were  new  to  me,  yet  I 
felt  that  it  was  improper  to  give  way  to  my  own  melan- 
choly thoughts.  I  knew  that  it  was  my  first  duty  to 
divert  the  solitary  young  strangers  ;  for  I  considered  that 
this  was  very  unlike  the  entrance  to  an  old-established 
school,  where  there  is  always  some  good-natured  girl  who 
will  show  attentions  to  a  new  scholar,  and  take  pleasure 
in  initiating  her  into  the  customs  and  amusements  of  the 
place.  These,  thought  I,  have  their  own  amusements  to 
invent ;  their  own  customs  to  establish.  How  unlike,  too, 
is  this  forlorn  meeting  to  old  schoolfellows  returning  after 
the  holidays,  when  mutual  greetings  soon  lighten  the 
memory  of  parting  sorrow. 

I  invited  you  to  draw  near  a  bright  fire  which  blazed 
in  the  chimney,  and  looked  the  only  cheerful  thing  in 
the  room. 

During  our  first  solemn  silence,  which,,  you  may  re- 
member, was  only  broken  by  my  repeated  requests  that 
you  would  make  a  smaller  and  still  smaller  circle,  till  I 
saw  the  fireplace  fairly  enclosed  round,  the  idea  came 
into  my  mind,  which  has  since  been  a  source  of  amusement 
to  you  in  the  recollection,  and  to  myself  in  particular  has 
been  of  essential  benefit,  as  it  enabled  me  to  form  a  just 
estimate  of  the  dispositions  of  you,  my  young  pupils .  and 


DEDICATION.  3 

assisted  me  to  adopt  ray  plan  of  future  instructions  to 
each  individual  temper. 

An  introduction  to  a  point  we  wish  to  carry,  we  always 
feel  to  be  an  awkward  affair,  and  generally  execute  it  in 
an  awkward  manner ;  so  I  believe  I  did  then  ;  for  when 
I  imparted  this  idea  to  you,  I  think  I  prefaced  it  rather 
too  formally  for  such  young  auditors ;  for  I  began  with 
telling  you  that  I  had  read  in  old  authors,  that  it  was  not 
unfrequent  in  former  times,  when  strangers  were  assembled 
together,  as  we  might  be,  for  them  to  amuse  themselves 
with  telling  stories — either  of  their  own  lives,  or  the 
adventures  of  others.  "  Will  you  allow  me,  ladies,"  I 
continued,  "  to  persuade  you  to  amuse  yourselves  in  this 
way  ?  You  will  not  then  look  so  unsociably  upon  each 
other ;  for  we  find  that  these  strangers,  of  whom  we  read, 
were  as  well  acquainted  before  the  conclusion  of  the  first 
story  as  if  they  had  known  each  other  many  years.  Let 
me  prevail  upon  you  to  relate  some  little  anecdotes  of 
your  own  lives.  Fictitious  tales  we  can  read  in  books, 
and  they  were  therefore  better  adapted  to  conversation  in 
those  times  when  books  of  amusement  were  more  scarce 
than  they  are  at  present." 

After  many  objections  of  not  knowing  what  to  say  or 
how  to  begin,  which  I  overcame  by  assuring  you  how 
easy  it  would  be,  for  that  every  person  is  naturally 
eloquent  when  they  are  the  hero  or  heroine  of  their  own 
tale  ; — the  Who  shmdd  begin  ?  was  next  in  question. 

I  proposed  to  draw  lots,  which  formed  a  little  amuse- 
ment of  itself.  Miss  Manners,  who  till  then  had  been  the 
saddest  of  the  sad,  began  to  brighten,  and  said  it  was  just 
like  drawing  king  and  queen ;  and  began  to  tell  us  where 
she  passed  last  Twelfth-day ;  but  as  her  narration  must 
have  interfered  with  the  more  important  business  of  the 
lottery,  I  advised  her  to  postpone  it  till  it  came  to  her 
turn  to  favour  us  with  the  history  of  her  life,  when  it 
would  appear  in  its  proper  order.  The  first  number  fell 
to  the  share  of  Miss  Villiers,  whose  joy  at  drawing  what 
we  called  the  first  prize  was  tempered  with  shame  at 


4  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

appearing  as  the  first  historian  in  the  company.  She 
wished  she  had  not  been  the  very  first : — she  had  passed 
all  her  life  in  a  retired  village,  and  had  nothing  to  relate 
of  herself  that  could  give  the  least  entertainment;  she 
had  not  the  least  idea  in  the  world  where  to  begin. 

"Begin,"  said  I,  "with  your  name,  for  that  at  present 
is  unknown  to  us.  Tell  us  the  first  thing  you  can 
remember ;  relate  whatever  happened  to  make  a  great 
impression  on  you  when  you  were  very  young ;  and  if  you 
find  you  can  connect  your  story  till  your  arrival  here  to- 
day, I  am  sure  we  shall  listen  to  you  with  pleasure ;  and 
if  you  like  to  break  off,  and  only  treat  us  with  a  part  of 
your  history,  we  will  excuse  you,  with  many  thanks  for 
the  amusement  which  you  have  afforded  us ;  and  the 
young  lady  who  has  drawn  the  second  number  will,  I 
hope,  take  her  turn  with  the  same  indulgence,  to  relate 
either  all,  or  any  part  of  the  events  of  her  life,  as  best 
pleases  her  own  fancy,  or  as  she  finds  she  can  manage  it 
with  the  most  ease  to  herself."  Encouraged  by  this  offer 
of  indulgence,  Miss  Villiers  began. 

If  in  my  report  of  her  story,  or  in  any  which  follow,  I 
shall  appear  to  make  her  or  you  speak  an  older  language 
than  it  seems  probable  that  you  should  use,  speaking  in 
your  own  words,  it  must  be  remembered  that  what  is 
very  proper  and  becoming  when  spoken,  requires  to  be 
arranged  with  some  little  difference  before  it  can  be  set 
down  in  writing.  Little  inaccuracies  must  be  pared 
away,  and  the  whole  must  assume  a  more  formal  and 
correct  appearance.  My  own  way  of  thinking,  I  am 
sensible,  will  too  often  intrude  itself;  but  I  have  endea- 
voured to  preserve,  as  exactly  as  I  could,  your  own  words 
and  your  own  peculiarities  of  style  and  manner,  and  to 
approve  myself 

Your  faithful  historiographer, 

as  well  as  true  friend, 

M.  B. 


ELIZABETH  V1LLIEES. 

MY  father  is  the  curate  of  a  village  church  about  five 
miles  from  Anrwell.  I  was  born  iu  the  parsonage-house, 
which  joins  the  churchyard.  The  first  thing  I  can 
remember  was  my  father  teaching  me  the  alphabet  from 
the  letters  on  a  tombstone  that  stood  at  the  head  of  my 
mother's  grave.  I  used  to  tap  at  my  father's  study  door ; 
I  think  I  now  hear  him  say,  "  Who  is  there  1— What  do 
you  want,  little  girl  1"  "Go  and  see  mamma.  Go  and 
learn  pretty  letters."  Many  times  in  the  day  would  my 
father  lay  aside  his  books  and  his  papers  to  lead  me  to 
this  spot,  and  make  me  point  to  the  letters,  and  then  set 
me  to  spell  syllables  and  words :  in  this  manner,  the 
epitaph  on  my  mother's  tomb  being  my  primer  and  my 
spelling-book,  I  learned  to  read. 

I  was  one  day  sitting  on  a  step  placed  across  the 
churchyard  stile,  when  a  gentleman,  passing  by,  heard 
me  distinctly  repeat  the  letters  which  formed  my  mother's 
name,  and  then  say  Elizabeth  Villiers,  with  a  firm  tone, 
as  if  I  had  performed  some  great  matter.  This  gentle- 
man was  my  uncle  James,  my  mother's  brother ;  he  was 
a  lieutenant  in  the  Navy,  and  had  left  England  a  few 
weeks  after  the  marriage  of  my  father  and  mother,  and 
now,  returned  home  from  a  long  sea-voyage,  he  was  coming 
to  visit  my  mother — no  tidings  of  her  decease  having 
reached  him,  though  she  had  been  dead  more  than  a 
twelvemonth. 

When  my  uncle  saw  me  sitting  on  the  stile,  and  heard 
me  pronounce  my  mother's  name,  he  looked  earnestly  in 
my  face,  and  began  to  fancy  a  resemblance  to  his  sister, 


6  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

and  to  think  I  might  be  her  child.  I  was  too  intent  on 
my  employment  to  observe  him,  and  went  spelling  on. 
"  Who  has  taught  you  to  spell  so  prettily,  my  little  maid1?" 
said  my  uncle.  "  Mamma,"  I  replied  ;  for  I  had  an  idea 
that  the  words  on  the  tombstone  were  somehow  a  part  of 
mamma,  and  that  she  had  taught  me.  "  And  who  is 
mamma1?"  asked  my  uncle.  "Elizabeth  Villiers,"  I 
replied ;  and  then  my  uncle  called  me  his  dear  little  niece, 
and  said  he  would  go  with  me  to  mamma ;  he  took  hold 
of  ray  hand,  intending  to  lead  me  home,  delighted  that 
he  had  found  out  who  I  was,  because  he  imagined  it 
would  be  such  a  pleasant  surprise  to  his  sister  to  see  her 
little  daughter  bringing  home  her  long-lost  sailor  uncle. 

I  agreed  to  take  him  to  mamma,  but  we  had  a  dispute 
about  the  way  thither.  My  uncle  was  for  going  along 
the  road  which  led  directly  up  to  our  house ;  I  pointed 
to  the  chiirchyard,  and  said  that  was  the  way  to  mamma. 
Though  impatient  of  any  delay,  he  was  not  willing  to 
contest  the  point  with  his  new  relation;  therefore  he 
lifted  me  over  the  stile,  and  was  then  going  to  take  me 
along  the  path  to  a  gate  he  knew  was  at  the  end  of  our 
garden  ;  but  no,  I  would  not  go  that  way  neither ;  letting 
go  his  hand,  I  said,  "  You  do  not  know  the  way, — I  will 
show  you ;"  and  making  what  haste  I  could  among  the 
long  grass  and  thistles,  and  jumping  over  the  low  graves, 
he  said,  as  he  followed  what  he  called  my  ivayward  steps, 
"  What  a  positive  soul  this  little  niece  of  mine  is !  I 
knew  the  way  to  your  mother's  house  before  you  were 
born,  child."  At  last  I  stopped  at  my  mother's  grave, 
and  pointing  to  the  tombstone  said,  "Here  is  mamma !" 
in  a  voice  of  exultation,  as  if  I  had  now  convinced  him 
that  I  knew  the  way  best.  I  looked  up  in  his  face  to 
see  him  acknowledge  his  mistake ;  but  oh  !  what  a  face 
of  sorrow  did  I  see  !  I  was  so  frightened,  that  I  have 
but  an  imperfect  recollection  of  what  followed.  I 
remember  I  pulled  his  coat,  and  cried  "  Sir,  sir  !"  and 
tried  to  move  him.  I  knew  not  what  to  do.  My  mind 
was  in  a  strange  confusion  ;  I  thought  I  had  done  some- 


THE  SAILOR  UNCLE.  7 

thing  wrong  in  bringing  the  gentleman  to  mamma,  to 
make  him  cry  so  sadly ;  but  what  it  was  I  could  not  tell. 
This  grave  had  always  been  a  scene  of  delight  to  me. 
In  the  house  my  lather  would  often  be  weary  of  my 
prattle,  and  send  me  from  him ;  but  here  he  was  all  my 
own.  I  might  say  anything,  and  be  as  frolicsome  as 
I  pleased  here;  all  was  cheerfulness  and  good-humour 
in  our  visits  to  mamma,  as  we  called  it.  My  father 
would  tell  me  how  quietly  mamma  slept  there,  and  that 
he  and  his  little  Betsy  would  one  day  sleep  beside 
mamma  in  that  grave ;  and  when  I  went  to  bed,  as  I 
laid  my  little  head  on  the  pillow,  I  used  to  wish  I  was 
sleeping  in  the  grave  with  my  papa  and  mamma  ;  and  in 
my  childish  dreams  I  used  to  fancy  myself  there ;  and  it 
was  a  place  within  the  ground,  all  smooth,  and  soft,  and 
green.  I  never  made  out  any  figure  of  mamma,  but  still 
it  was  the  tombstone,  and  papa,  and  the  smooth  green 
grass,  and  my  head  resting  upon  the  elbow  of  my  father. 

How  long  my  uncle  remained  in  this  agony  of  grief  I 
know  not — to  me  it  seemed  a  very  long  time  ;  at  last  he 
took  me  in  his  arms,  and  held  me  so  tight  that  I  began 
to  cry,  and  ran  home  to  my  father  and  told  him  that  a 
gentleman  was  crying  about  mamma's  pretty  letters. 

No  doubt  it  was  a  very  affecting  meeting  between  my 
father  and  my  uncle.  I  remember  that  it  was  the  very 
first  day  I  ever  saw  my  father  weep — that  I  was  in  sad 
trouble,  and  went  into  the  kitchen  and  told  Susan,  our 
servant,  that  papa  was  crying ;  and  she  wanted  to  keep 
me  with  her,  that  I  might  not  disturb  the  conversation  ; 
but  I  would  go  back  to  the  parlour  to  poor  papa,  and  I 
went  in  softly  and  crept  between  my  father's  knees. 
My  uncle  offered  to  take  me  in  his  arms,  but  I  turned 
sullenly  from  him,  and  clung  closer  to  my  father,  having 
conceived  a  dislike  to  my  uncle  because  he  had  made  my 
father  cry. 

Now  I  first  learned  that  my  mother's  death  was  a 
heavy  affliction ;  for  I  heard  my  father  tell  a  melancholy 
story  of  her  long  illness,  her  death,  and  what  he  had 


8  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

suffered  from  her  loss.  My  uncle  said  what  a  sad  thing 
it  was  for  my  father  to  be  left  witli  such  a  young  child ; 
but  my  father  replied,  his  little  Betsy  was  all  his  comfort, 
and  that,  but  for  me,  he  should  have  died  with  grief. 
How  I  could  be  any  comfort  to  my  father,  struck  me 
with  wonder.  I  knew  I  was  pleased  when  he  played 
and  talked  with  me ;  but  I  thought  that  was  all  goodness 
and  favour  done  to  me,  and  I  had  no  notion  how  I  could 
make  any  part  of  his  happiness.  The  sorrow  I  now 
heard  he  had  suffered  was  as  new  and  strange  to  me.  I 
had  no  idea  that  he  had  ever  been  unhappy ;  his  voice 
was  always  kind  and  cheerful ;  I  had  never  before  seen 
him  weep,  or  show  any  such  signs  of  grief  as  those  in 
which  I  used  to  express  my  little  troubles.  My  thoughts 
on  these  subjects  were  confused  and  childish ;  but  from 
that  time  I  never  ceased  pondering  on  the  sad  story  of 
my  dead  mamma. 

The  next  day  I  went,  by  mere  habit,  to  the  study 
door,  to  call  papa  to  the  beloved  grave ;  my  mind  misgave 
me,  and  I  could  not  tap  at  the  door.  I  went  backwards 
and  forwards  between  the  kitchen  and  the  study,  and 
what  to  do  with  myself  I  did  not  know.  My  uncle  met 
me  in  the  passage,  and  said,  "  Betsy,  will  you  come  and 
walk  with  me  in  the  garden  1"  This  I  refused,  for  this 
was  not  what  I  wanted,  but  the  old  amusement  of  sitting 
on  the  grave  and  talking  to  papa.  My  uncle  tried  to 
persuade  me,  but  still  I  said,  "  No,  no,"  and  ran  crying 
into  the  kitchen.  As  he  followed  me  in  there,  Susan 
said,  "  This  child  is  so  fretful  to-day,  I  do  not  know 
what  to  do  with  her."  "Ay,"  said  my  uncle,  "  I  suppose 
my  poor  brother  spoils  her,  having  but  one."  This 
reflection  on  my  papa  made  me  quite  in  a  little  passion 
of  auger,  for  I  had  not  forgot  that  with  this  new  uncle 
sorrow  had  first  come  into  our  dwelling;  I  screamed 
loudly,  till  my  father  came  out  to  know  what  it  was  all 
about.  He  sent  my  uncle  into  the  parlour,  and  said  he 
would  manage  the  little  wrangler  by  himself.  When 
my  uncle  was  gone  I  ceased  crying ;  my  father  forgot  to 


THE  SAILOR  UNCLE.  9 

lecture  me  for  my  ill-humour,  or  to  inquire  into  the  cause, 
and  we  were  soon  seated  by  the  side  of  the  tombstone. 
No  lesson  went  on  that  day  ;  no  talking  of  pretty  mamma 
sleeping  in  the  green  grave  ;  no  jumping  from  the  tomb- 
stone to  the  ground  ;  no  merry  jokes  or  pleasant  stories. 
I  sat  upon  my  father's  knee,  looking  up  in  his  face  and 
thinking,  "How  sorry  papa  looks"  till  having  been 
fatigued  with  crying,  and  now  oppressed  with  thought,  I 
fell  fast  asleep. 

My  uncle  soon  learned  from  Susan  that  this  place  was 
our  constant  haunt ;  she  told  him  she  did  verily  believe 
her  master  would  never  get  the  better  of  the  death  of 
her  mistress  while  he  continued  to  teach  the  child  to 
read  at  the  tombstone ;  for  though  it  might  soothe  his 
grief,  it  kept  it  for  ever  fresh  in  his  memory.  The  sight 
of  his  sister's  grave  had  been  such  a  shock  to  my  uncle, 
that  he  readily  entered  into  Susan's  apprehensions ;  and 
concluding  that  if  I  were  set  to  study  by  some  other 
means,  there  would  no  longer  be  a  pretence  for  these 
visits  to  the  grave,  away  my  kind  uncle  hastened  to  the 
nearest  market-town  to  buy  me  some  books. 

I  heard  the  conference  between  my  uncle  and  Susan, 
and  I  did  not  approve  of  his  interfering  in  our  pleasure. 
I  saw  him  take  his  hat  and  walk  out,  and  I  secretly 
hoped  he  was  gone  beyond  seas  again,  from  whence 
Susan  had  told  me  he  had  come.  Where  beyond  seas 
was,  I  could  not  tell ;  but  I  concluded  it  was  somewhere 
a  great  way  off.  I  took  my  seat  on  the  churchyard 
stile,  and  kept  looking  down  the  road,  and  saying,  "I 
hope  I  shall  not  see  my  uncle  again.  I  hope  my  uncle 
will  not  come  from  beyond  seas  any  more ;"  but  I  said 
this  very  softly,  and  had  a  kind  of  notion  that  I  was  in 
a  perverse  ill-humoured  fit.  Here  I  sat  till  my  uncle 
returned  from  the  market-town  with  his  new  purchases. 
I  saw  him  come  walking  very  fast,  with  a  parcel  under 
his  arm.  I  was  very  sorry  to  see  him,  and  I  frowned 
and  tried  to  look  very  cross.  He  untied  his  parcel,  and 
said;  "Betsy,  I  have  brought  you  a  pretty  book."  I 


10  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

turned  my  head  away,  and  said,  "I  don't  want  a  book  ;" 
but  I  could  not  help  peeping  again  to  look  at  it.  In  the 
hurry  of  opening  the  parcel,  he  had  scattered  all  the 
books  upon  the  ground,  and  there  I  saw  fine  gilt  covers 
and  gay  pictures  all  fluttering  about.  What  a  fine 
sight !  All  my  resentment  vanished,  and  I  held  up  my 
face  to  kiss  him,  that  being  my  way  of  thanking  my 
father  for  any  extraordinary  favour. 

My  uncle  had  brought  himself  into  rather  a  trouble- 
some office ;  he  had  heard  me  spell  so  well,  that  he 
thought  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  put  books  into 
my  hand  and  I  should  read;  yet  notwithstanding  I 
spelt  tolerably  well,  the  letters  in  my  new  library  were 
so  much  smaller  than  I  had  been  accustomed  to ;  they 
were  like  Greek  characters  to  me  ;  I  could  make  nothing 
at  all  of  them.  The  honest  sailor  was  not  to  be  dis- 
couraged by  this  difficulty ;  though  unused  to  play  the 
schoolmaster,  he  taught  me  to  read  the  small  print  with 
unwearied  diligence  and  patience;  and  whenever  he 
saw  my  father  and  me  look  as  if  we  wanted  to  resume 
our  visits  to  the  grave,  he  would  propose  some  pleasant 
walk ;  and  if  my  father  said  it  was  too  far  for  the 
child  to  walk,  he  would  set  me  on  his  shoulder  and  say, 
"Then  Betsy  shall  ride!"  and  in  this  manner  has  he 
carried  me  many,  many  miles. 

In  these  pleasant  excursions  my  uncle  seldom  forgot 
to  make  Susan  furnish  him  with  a  luncheon,  which, 
though  it  generally  happened  every  day,  made  a  constant 
surprise  to  my  papa  and  me,  when,  seated  under  some 
shady  tree,  he  pulled  it  out  of  his  pocket,  and  began  to 
distribute  his  little  store ;  and  then  I  used  to  peep  into 
the  other  pocket,  to  see  if  there  were  not  some  currant 
wine  there,  and  the  little  bottle  of  water  for  me;  if, 
perchance,  the  water  was  forgot,  then  it  made  another 
joke, — that  poor  Betsy  must  be  forced  to  drink  a  little 
drop  of  wine.  These  are  childish  things  to  tell  of;  and, 
instead  of  my  own  silly  history,  I  wish  I  could  remember 
the  entertaining  stories  my  uncle  used  to  relate  of  his 


THE  SAILOR  UNCLE.  11 

voyages  and  travels,  while  we  sat  under  the  shady  trees 
eating  our  noontide  meal. 

The  long  visit  my  uncle  made  us  was  such  an 
important  event  in  my  life,  that  I  fear  I  shall  tire  your 
patience  with  talking  of  him ;  but  when  he  is  gone,  the 
remainder  of  my  story  will  be  but  short 

The  summer  months  passed  away,  but  not  swiftly ; — 
the  pleasant  walks  and  the  charming  stories  of  my 
uncle's  adventures  made  them  seem  like  years  to  me. 
I  remember  the  approach  of  winter  by  the  warm  great- 
coat he  bought  for  me,  and  how  proud  I  was  when  I 
first  put  it  on ;  and  that  he  called  me  Little  Red  Riding 
Hood,  and  bade  me  beware  of  wolves ;  and  that  I 
laughed,  and  said  there  were  no  such  things  now ;  then 
he  told  me  how  many  wolves,  and  bears,  and  tigers,  and 
lions  he  had  met  with  in  uninhabited  lands  that  were 
like  Robinson  Crusoe's  island.  Oh,  these  were  happy 
days  ! 

In  the  winter  our  walks  were  shorter  and  less  frequent. 
My  books  were  now  my  chief  amusement,  though  my 
studies  were  often  interrupted  by  a  game  of  romps  with 
my  uncle,  which  too  often  ended  in  a  quarrel,  because 
he  played  so  roughly;  yet  long  before  this  I  dearly 
loved  my  uncle,  and  the  improvement  I  made  while  he 
was  with  us  was  very  great  indeed.  I  could  now  read 
very  well,  and  the  continual  habit  of  listening  to  the 
conversation  of  my  father  and  my  uncle  made  me  a 
little  woman  in  understanding  ;  so  that  my  father  said 
to  him,  "  James,  you  have  made  my  child  quite  a 
companionable  little  being !" 

My  father  often  left  me  alone  with  my  uncle ;  some- 
times to  write  his  sermons ;  sometimes  to  visit  the  sick, 
or  give  counsel  to  his  poor  neighbours ;  then  my  uncle 
used  to  hold  long  conversations  with  me,  telling  me  how 
I  should  strive  to  make  my  father  happy,  and  endeavour 
to  improve  myself  when  he  was  gone.  Now  I  began 
justly  to  understand  why  he  had  taken  such  pains  to 
keep  my  father  from  visiting  my  mother's  grave, — that 


12  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

grave  which  I  often  stole  privately  to  look  at ;  but  now 
never  without  awe  and  reverence,  for  my  uncle  used  to 
tell  me  what  an  excellent  lady  my  mother  was ;  and  I 
now  thought  of  her  as  having  been  a  real  mamma,  which 
before  seemed  an  ideal  something,  no  way  connected  with 
life.  And  he  told  me  that  the  ladies  from  the  Manor- 
house,  who  sat  in  the  best  pew  in  the  church,  were  not 
so  graceful,  and  the  best  women  in  the  village  were  not 
so  good,  as  was  my  sweet  mamma ;  and  that  if  she  had 
lived,  I  should  not  have  been  forced  to  pick  up  a  little 
knowledge  from  him,  a  rough  sailor,  or  to  learn  to  knit 
and  sew  of  Susan,  but  that  she  would  have  taught  me 
all  ladylike  fine  works,  and  delicate  behaviour,  and 
perfect  manners,  and  would  have  selected  for  me  proper 
books,  such  as  were  most  fit  to  instruct  my  mind,  and 
of  which  he  nothing  knew.  If  ever  in  my  life  I  shall 
have  any  proper  sense  of  what  is  excellent  or  becoming 
in  the  womanly  character,  I  owe  it  to  these  lessons  of 
my  rough  unpolished  uncle ;  for,  in  telling  me  what  my 
mother  would  have  made  me,  he  taught  me  what  to  wish 
to  be ;  and  when,  soon  after  my  uncle  left  us,  I  was 
introduced  to  the  ladies  at  the  Manor-house,  instead  of 
hanging  down  my  head  with  shame,  as  I  should  have 
done  before  my  uncle  came,  like  a  little  village  rustic,  I 
tried  to  speak  distinctly,  with  ease  and  a  modest  gentle- 
ness, as  my  uncle  had  said  my  mother  used  to  do ;  instead 
of  hanging  down  my  head  abashed,  I  looked  upon  them, 
and  thought  what  a  pretty  sight  a  fine  lady  was,  and 
how  well  my  mother  must  have  appeared,  since  she  was 
so  much  more  graceful  than  these  high  ladies  were ;  and 
when  I  heard  them  compliment  my  father  on  the  admir- 
able behaviour  of  his  child,  and  say  how  well  he  had 
brought  me  up,  I  thought  to  myself,  "  Papa  does  not 
much  mind  my  manners,  if  I  am  but  a  good  girl ;  but  it 
was  my  uncle  that  taught  me  to  behave  like  mamma." 
I  cannot  now  think  my  uncle  was  so  rough  and  un- 
polished as  he  said  he  was,  for  his  lessons  were  so 
good  and  so  impressive  that  I  shall  never  forget  them, 


THE  SAILOR  UNCLE.  13 

and  I  hope  they  will  be  of  use  to  me  as  long  as  I  live. 
He  would  explain  to  me  the  meaning  of  all  the  words  he 
used,  such  as  grace  and  elegance,  modest  diffidence  and 
affectation,  pointing  out  instances  of  what  he  meant  by 
those  words,  in  the  manners  of  the  ladies  and  their 
young  daughters  who  came  to  our  church  ;  for,  besides 
the  ladies  of  the  Manor-house,  many  of  the  neighbouring 
families  came  to  our  church,  because  my  father  preached 
so  well. 

It  must  have  been  early  in  the  spring  when  my  uncle 
went  away,  for  the  crocuses  were  just  blown  in  the 
garden,  and  the  primroses  had  begun  to  peep  from 
under  the  young  budding  hedgerows.  I  cried  as  if  my 
heart  would  break,  when  I  had  the  last  sight  of  him 
through  a  little  opening  among  the  trees  as  he  went 
down  the  road.  My  father  accompanied  him  to  the 
market -town,  from  whence  he  was  to  proceed  in  the 
stage-coach  to  London.  How  tedious  I  thought  all 
Susan's  endeavours  to  comfort  me  were.  The  stile 
where  I  first  saw  my  uncle  came  into  my  mind,  and  I 
thought  I  would  go  and  sit  there,  and  think  about 
that  day;  but  I  was  no  sooner  seated  there,  than  I 
remembered  how  I  had  frightened  him  by  taking  him 
so  foolishly  to  my  mother's  grave,  and  then  again  how 
naughty  I  had  been  when  I  sat  muttering  to  myself  at 
this  same  stile,  wishing  that  he  who  had  gone  so  far  to 
buy  me  books  might  never  come  back  any  more ;  all  my 
little  quarrels  with  my  uncle  came  into  my  mind  now 
that  I  could  never  play  with  him  again,  and  it  almost 
broke  my  heart.  I  was  forced  to  run  into  the  house  to 
Susan  for  that  consolation  I  had  just  before  despised. 

Some  days  after  this,  as  I  was  sitting  by  the  fire  with 
my  father,  after  it  was  dark,  and  before  the  candles  were 
lighted,  I  gave  him  an  account  of  my  troubled  conscience 
at  the  church-stile,  when  I  remembered  how  unkind  I 
had  been  to  my  uncle  when  he  first  came,  and  how 
sorry  I  still  was  whenever  I  thought  of  the  many 
quarrels  I  had  had  with  him. 


14  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

My  father  smiled,  and  took  hold  of  my  hand,  saying, 
"  I  will  tell  you  all  about  this,  my  little  penitent.  This 
is  the  sort  of  way  in  which  we  all  feel  when  those  we 
love  are  taken  from  us.  When  our  dear  friends  are 
with  us,  we  go  on  enjoying  their  society,  without  much 
thought  or  consideration  of  the  blessing  we  are  possessed 
of,  nor  do  we  too  nicely  weigh  the  measure  of  our  daily 
actions — we  let  them  freely  share  our  kind  or  our  dis- 
contented moods ;  and,  if  any  little  bickerings  disturb 
our  friendship,  it  does  but  the  more  endear  us  to  each 
other  when  we  are  in  a  happier  temper.  But  these 
things  come  over  us  like  grievous  faults  when  the  object 
of  our  affection  is  gone  for  ever.  Your  dear  mamma 
and  I  had  no  quarrels ;  yet  in  the  first  days  of  my  lonely 
sorrow  how  many  things  came  into  my  mind  that  I 
might  have  done  to  have  made  her  happier.  It  is  so 
with  you,  my  child.  You  did  all  a  child  could  do  to 
please  your  uncle,  and  dearly  did  he  love  you;  and 
these  little  things  which  now  disturb  your  tender  mind, 
were  remembered  with  delight  by  your  uncle ;  he  was 
telling  me  in  our  last  walk,  just  perhaps  as  you  were 
thinking  about  it  with  sorrow,  of  the  difficulty  he  had  in 
getting  into  your  good  graces  when  he  first  came ;  he 
will  think  of  these  things  with  pleasure  when  he  is  far 
away.  Put  away  from  you  this  unfounded  grief;  only 
let  it  be  a  lesson  to  you  to  be  as  kind  as  possible  to 
those  you  love ;  and  remember,  when  they  are  gone 
from  you,  you  will  never  think  you  had  been  kind 
enough.  Such  feelings  as  you  have  now  described  are 
the  lot  of  humanity.  So  you  will  feel  when  I  am  no 
more,  and  so  will  your  children  feel  when  you  are  dead. 
But  your  uncle  will  come  back  again,  Betsy,  and  we 
will  now  think  of  where  we  are  to  get  the  cage  to  keep 
the  talking  parrot  in,  he  is  to  bring  home ;  and  go  and 
tell  Susan  to  bring  the  candles,  and  ask  her  if  the  nice 
cake  is  almost  baked  that  she  promised  to  give  us  for 
our  tea." 


THE  FARMHOUSE.  15 

At  this  point,  my  dear  Miss  Villiers,  you  thought  fit 
to  break  off  your  story,  and  the  wet  eyes  of  your  young 
auditors  seemed  to  confess  that  you  had  succeeded  in 
moving  their  feelings  with  your  pretty  narrative.  It 
now  fell  by  lot  to  the  turn  of  Miss  Manners  to  relate  her 
story,  and  we  were  all  sufficiently  curious  to  know  ivhat 
so  very  young  an  historian  had  to  tell  of  herself.  I 
shall  continue  the  narratives  for  the  future  in  the  order 
in  which  they  followed,  without  mentioning  any  of  the 
interruptions  which  occurred  from  the  asking  of  questions, 
or  from  any  other  cause,  unless  materially  connected  with 
the  stories.  I  shall  also  leave  out  the  apologies  with 
which  you  severally  thought  fit  to  preface  your  stories  of 
yourselves,  though  they  were  vei-y  seasonable  in  their 
place,  and  proceeded  from  a  proper  diffidence,  because  I 
must  not  swell  my  work  to  too  large  a  size. 


LOUISA  MAXXERS. 

MY  name  is  Louisa  Manners ;  I  was  seven  years  of  age 
last  birthday,  which  was  on  the  first  of  May.  I  re- 
member only  four  birthdays.  The  day  I  was  four  years 
old  was  the  first  that  I  recollect.  On  the  morning  of 
that  day,  as  soon  as  I  awoke,  I  crept  into  mamma's  bed, 
and  said,  "  Open  your  eyes,  mamma,  for  it  is  my  birth- 
day. Open  your  eyes  and  look  at  me  !"  Then  mamma 
told  me  I  should  ride  in  a  post-chaise,  and  see  my  grand- 
mamma and  my  sister  Sarah.  Grandmamma  lived  at  a 
farmhouse  in  the  country,  and  I  had  never  in  all  my  life 
been  out  of  London ;  no,  nor  had  I  ever  seen  a  bit  of 
green  grass,  except  in  the  Drapers'  Garden,  which  is  near 
my  papa's  house  in  Broad  Street ;  nor  had  I  ever  rode  in 
a  carriage  before  that  happy  birthday. 

I  ran  about  the  house  talking  of  where  I  was  going, 


16  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

and  rejoicing  so  that  it  was  my  birthday,  that  when  I 
got  into  the  chaise  I  was  tired,  and  fell  asleep. 

When  I  awoke,  I  saw  the  green  fields  on  both  sides 
of  the  chaise,  and  the  fields  were  full,  quite  full,  of  bright 
shining  yellow  flowers,  and  sheep  and  young  lambs  were 
feeding  in  them.  I  jumped,  and  clapped  my  hands 
together  for  joy,  and  I  cried  out,  "  This  is 

"  '  Abroad  in  the  meadows  to  see  the  young  lambs,' " 

for  I  knew  many  of  Watts's  hymns  by  heart. 

The  trees  and  hedges  seemed  to  fly  swiftly  by  us,  and 
one  field,  and  the  sheep,  and  the  young  lambs,  passed 
away ;  and  then  another  field  came,  and  that  was  full  of 
cows  ;  and  then  another  field,  and  all  the  pretty  sheep 
returned ;  and  there  was  no  end  of  these  charming  sights 
till  we  came  quite  to  grandmamma's  house,  which  stood 
all  alone  by  itself,  no  house  to  be  seen  at  all  near  it. 

Grandmamma  was  very  glad  to  see  me,  and  she  was 
very  sorry  that  I  did  not  remember  her,  though  I  had 
been  so  fond  of  her  when  she  was  in  town  but  a  few 
months  before.  I  was  quite  ashamed  of  my  bad  memory. 
My  sister  Sarah  showed  me  all  the  beautiful  places  about 
grandmamma's  house.  She  first  took  me  into  the  farm- 
yard, and  I  peeped  into  the  barn;  there  I  saw  a  man 
thrashing,  and  as  he  beat  the  corn  with  his  flail,  he  made 
such  a  dreadful  noise  that  I  was  frightened,  and  ran  away ; 
my  sister  persuaded  me  to  return ;  she  said  Will  Tasker 
was  very  good-natured  ;  then  I  went  back,  and  peeped  at 
him  again ;  but  as  I  could  not  reconcile  myself  to  the 
sound  of  his  flail,  or  the  sight  of  his  black  beard,  we 
proceeded  to  see  the  rest  of  the  farmyard. 

There  was  no  end  to  the  curiosities  that  Sarah  had  to 
show  me.  There  was  the  pond  where  the  ducks  were 
swimming,  and  the  little  wooden  houses  where  the  hens 
slept  at  night.  The  hens  were  feeding  all  over  the  yard, 
and  the  prettiest  little  chickens,  they  were  feeding  too, 
and  little  yellow  ducklings  that  had  a  hen  for  their 
mamma.  She  was  so  frightened  if  they  went  near  the 


THE  FARMHOUSE.  17 

water  !     Grandmamma  says  a  hen  is  not  esteemed  a  very 
wise  bird. 

We  went  out  of  the  farmyard  into  the  orchard.  Oh, 
what  a  sweet  place  grandmamma's  orchard  is  !  There 
were  pear-trees,  and  apple-trees,  and  cherry-trees,  all  in 
blossom.  These  blossoms  were  the  prettiest  flowers  that 
ever  were  seen ;  and  among  the  grass  under  the  trees 
there  grew  buttercups,  and  cowslips,  and  daffodils,  and 
blue-bells.  Sarah  told  me  all  their  names,  and  she  said 
I  might  pick  as  many  of  them  as  ever  I  pleased. 

I  filled  my  lap  with  flowers,  I  filled  my  bospm  with 
flowers,  and  I  carried  as  many  flowers  as  I  could  in  both 
my  hands  ;  but  as  I  was  going  into  the  parlour  to  show 
them  to  my  mamma,  I  stumbled  over  a  threshold  which 
was  placed  across  the  parlour,  and  down  I  fell  with  all 
my  treasure. 

Nothing  could  have  so  well  pacified  me  for  the  mis- 
fortune of  my  fallen  flowers  as  the  sight  of  a  delicious 
syllabub  which  happened  at  that  moment  to  be  brought 
in.  Grandmamma  said  it  was  a  present  from  the  red 
cow  to  me  because  it  was  my  birthday ;  and  then, 
because  it  was  the  first  of  May,  she  ordered  the  syllabub 
to  be  placed  under  the  May-bush  that  grew  before  the 
parlour-door,  and  when  we  were  seated  on  the  grass 
round  it,  she  helped  me  the  very  first  to  a  large  glass 
full  of  the  syllabub,  and  wished  me  many  happy  returns 
of  that  day,  and  then  she  said  I  was  myself  the  sweetest 
little  May-blossom  in  the  orchard. 

After  the  syllabub,  there  was  the  garden  to  see,  and 
a  most  beautiful  garden  it  was ;— long  and  narrow,  a 
straight  gravel  walk  down  the  middle  of  it ;  at  the  end 
of  the  gravel  walk  there  was  a  green  arbour  with  a  bench 
under  it. 

There  were  rows  of  cabbages  and  radishes,  and  pease 
and  beans.  I  was  delighted  to  see  them,  for  I  never  saw 
so  much  as  a  cabbage  growing  out  of  the  ground  before. 

On  one  side  of  this  charming  garden  there  were  a 
great  many  beehives,  and  the  bees  sung  so  prettily, 
c 


18  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

Mamma  said,  "  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  these 
pretty  bees,  Louisa  V  Then  I  said  to  them — 

' '  How  doth  the  little  busy  bee  improve  each  shining  hour, 
And  gather  honey  all  the  day  from  every  opening  flower. " 

They  had  a  most  beautiful  flower-bed  to  gather  it  from, 
quite  close  under  the  hives. 

I  was  going  to  catch  one  bee,  till  Sarah  told  me  about 
their  stings,  which  made  me  afraid  for  a  long  time  to  go 
too  near  their  hives ;  but  I  went  a  little  nearer,  and  a 
little  nearer  every  day,  and  before  I  came  away  from 
grandmamma's,  I  grew  so  bold,  I  let  Will  Tasker  hold 
me  over  the  glass  windows  at  the  top  of  the  hives,  to  see 
them  make  honey  in  their  own  home. 

After  seeing  the  garden,  I  saw  the  cows  milked,  and 
that  was  the  last  sight  I  saw  that  day  ;  for  while  I  was 
telling  mamma  about  the  cows,  I  fell  fast  asleep,  and  I 
suppose  I  was  then  put  to  bed. 

The  next  morning  my  papa  and  mamma  were  gone. 
I  cried  sadly,  but  was  a  little  comforted  at  hearing  they 
would  return  in  a  month  or  two,  and  fetch  me  home.  I 
was  a  foolish  little  thing  then,  and  did  not  know  how 
long  a  month  was.  Grandmamma  gave  me  a  little 
basket  to  gather  my  flowers  in.  I  went  into  the  orchard, 
and  before  I  had  half -filled  my  basket  I  forgot  all  my 
troubles. 

The  time  I  passed  at  my  grandmamma's  is  always  in 
my  mind.  Sometimes  I  think  of  the  good-natured  pied 
cow  that  would  let  me  stroke  her  while  the  dairy-maid 
was  milking  her.  Then  I  fancy  myself  running  after 
the  dairy-maid  into  the  nice  clean  dairy,  and  see  the  pans 
full  of  milk  and  cream.  Then  I  remember  the  wood- 
house  ;  it  had  once  been  a  large  barn,  but  being  grown 
old,  the  wood  was  kept  there.  My  sister  and  I  used  to 
peep  about  among  the  faggots,  to  find  the  eggs  the  hens 
sometimes  left  there.  Birds'  nests  we  might  not  look  for. 
Grandmamma  was  very  angry  once,  when  Will  Tasker 
brought  home  a  bird's  nest  full  of  pretty  speckled  eggs 


THE  FARMHOUSE.  19 

for  me.  She  sent  him  back  to  the  hedge  with  it  again. 
She  said  the  little  birds  would  not  sing  any  more  if  their 
eggs  were  taken  away  from  them. 

A  hen,  she  said,  was  a  hospitable  bird,  and  always 
laid  more  eggs  than  she  wanted,  on  purpose  to  give  her 
mistress  to  make  puddings  and  custards  with. 

I  do  not  know  which  pleased  grandmamma  best,  when 
we  earned  her  home  a  lapful  of  eggs,  or  a  few  violets ; 
for  she  was  particularly  fond  of  violets. 

Violets  were  very  scarce  ;  we  used  to  search  very  care- 
fully for  them  every  morning  round  by  the  orchard  hedge, 
and  Sarah  used  to  carry  a  stick  in  her  hand  to  beat  away 
the  nettles ;  for  very  frequently  the  hens  left  their  eggs 
among  the  nettles.  If  we  could  find  eggs  and  violets  too, 
what  happy  children  we  were  ! 

Every  day  I  used  to  fill  my  basket  with  flowers,  and 
for  a  long  time  I  liked  one  pretty  flower  as  well  as  another 
pretty  flower  ;  but  Sarah  was  much  wiser  than  me,  and 
she  taught  me  which  to  prefer. 

Grandmamma's  violets  were  certainly  best  of  all,  but 
they  never  went  in  the  basket,  being  earned  home,  almost 
flower  by  flower,  as  soon  as  they  were  found,  therefore 
blue-bells  might  be  said  to  be  the  best,  for  the  cowslips 
were  all  withered  and  gone  before  I  learned  the  true 
value  of  flowers.  The  best  blue-bells  were  those  tinged 
with  red ;  some  were  so  very  red  that  we  called  them  red. 
blue-bells,  and  these  Sarah  prized  very  highly  indeed. 
Daffodils  were  so  very  plentiful,  they  were  not  thought 
worth  gathering  unless  they  were  double  ones  ;  and  butter- 
cups I  found  were  very  poor  flowers  indeed,  yet  I  would 
pick  one  now  and  then,  because  I  knew  they  were  the 
very  same  flowers  that  had  delighted  me  so  in  the  journey ; 
for  my  papa  had  told  me  they  were. 

I  was  very  careful  to  love  best  the  flowers  which 
Sarah  praised  most,  yet  sometimes,  I  confess,  I  have  even 
picked  a  daisy,  though  I  knew  it  was  the  very  worst 
flower  of  all,  because  it  reminded  me  of  London,  and  the 
Drapers'  Garden  ;  for,  happy  as  I  was  at  grandmamma's, 


20  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

I  could  not  help  sometimes  thinking  of  my  papa  and 
mamma,  and  then  I  used  to  tell  my  sister  all  about 
London ;  how  the  houses  stood  all  close  to  each  other ; 
what  a  pretty  noise  the  coaches  made ;  and  what  a  great 
many  people  there  were  in  the  streets.  After  we  had 
been  talking  on  these  subjects,  we  generally  used  to  go 
into  the  old  wood-house  and  play  at  being  in  London. 
We  used  to  set  up  bits  of  wood  for  houses  ;  our  two  dolls 
we  called  papa  and  mamma ;  in  one  corner  we  made  a 
little  garden  with  grass  and  daisies,  and  that  was  to  be 
the  Drapers'  Garden.  I  would  not  have  any  other  flowers 
here  than  daisies,  because  no  other  grew  among  the  grass 
in  the  real  Drapers'  Garden.  Before  the  time  of  hay- 
making came,  it  was  very  much  talked  of.  Sarah  told 
me  what  a  merry  time  it  would  be,  for  she  remembered 
everything  which  had  happened  for  a  year  or  more.  She 
told  me  how  nicely  we  should  throw  the  hay  about.  I 
was  very  desirous,  indeed,  to  see  the  hay  made. 

To  be  sure,  nothing  could  be  more  pleasant  than  the 
day  the  orchard  was  mowed :  the  hay  smelled  so  sweet, 
and  we  might  toss  it  about  as  much  as  ever  we  pleased  ; 
but,  dear  me,  we  often  wish  for  things  that  do  not  prove 
so  happy  as  we  expected ;  the  hay,  which  was  at  first  so 
green  and  smelled  so  sweet,  became  yellow  and  dry, 
and  was  carried  away  in  a  cart  to  feed  the  horses ;  and 
then,  when  it  was  all  gone,  and  there  was  no  more  to 
play  with,  I  looked  upon  the  naked  ground,  and  per- 
ceived what  we  had  lost  in  these  few  merry  days. 
Ladies,  would  you  believe  it,  every  flower,  blue-bells, 
daffodils,  buttercups,  daisies,  all  were  cut  off  by  the 
cruel  scythe  of  the  mower.  No  flower  was  to  be  seen 
at  all,  except  here  and  there  a  short  solitary  daisy,  that 
a  week  before  one  would  not  have  looked  at. 

It  was  a  grief,  indeed,  to  me,  to  lose  all  my  pretty 
flowers ;  yet  when  we  are  in  great  distress,  there  is 
always,  I  think,  something  which  happens  to  comfort  us ; 
and  so  it  happened  now  that  gooseberries  and  currants 
were  almost  ripe,  which  was  certainly  a  very  pleasant 


THE  FARMHOUSE.  21 

prospect.  Some  of  them  began  to  turn  red,  and  as  we 
never  disobeyed  grandmamma,  we  used  often  to  consult 
together,  if  it  was  likely  she  would  permit  us  to  eat  them 
yet ;  then  we  would  pick  a  few  that  looked  the  ripest,  and 
run  to  ask  her  if  she  thought  they  were  ripe  enough  to 
eat,  and  the  uncertainty  what  her  opinion  would  be 
made  them  doubly  sweet  if  she  gave  us  leave  to  eat 
them. 

When  the  currants  and  gooseberries  were  quite  ripe, 
grandmamma  had  a  sheep -shearing.  All  the  sheep 
stood  under  the  trees  to  be  sheared.  They  were 
brought  out  of  the  field  by  old  Spot,  the  shepherd.  I 
stood  at  the  orchard-gate  and  saw  him  drive  them  all 
in.  When  they  had  cropped  off  all  their  wool,  they 
looked  very  clean,  and  white,  and  pretty;  but,  poor 
things,  they  ran  shivering  about  with  cold,  so  that  it  was 
a  pity  to  see  them.  Great  preparations  were  making  all 
day  for  the  sheep-shearing  supper.  Sarah  said  a  sheep- 
shearing  was  not  to  be  compared  to  a  harvest -home, 
that  was  so  much  better,  for  that  then  the  oven  was 
quite  full  of  plum-pudding,  and  the  kitchen  was  very  hot 
indeed  with  roasting  beef;  yet  I  can  assure  you  there 
was  no  want  at  all  of  either  roast-beef  or  plum-pudding 
at  the  sheep-shearing. 

My  sister  and  I  were  permitted  to  sit  up  till  it  was 
almost  dark,  to  see  the  company  at  supper.  They  sat  at 
a  long  oak  table,  which  was  finely  carved,  and  as  bright 
as  a  looking-glass. 

I  obtained  a  great  deal  of  praise  that  day,  because  I 
replied  so  prettily  when  I  was  spoken  to.  My  sister 
was  more  shy  than  me ;  never  having  lived  in  London 
was  the  reason  of  that.  After  the  happiest  day  bed- 
time will  come  !  We  sat  up  late ;  but  at  last  grand- 
mamma sent  us  to  bed ;  yet  though  we  went  to  bed,  we 
heard  many  charming  songs  sung ;  to  be  sure,  we  could 
not  distinguish  the  words,  which  was  a  pity,  but  the 
sound  of  their  voices  was  very  loud,  and  very  fine 
indeed. 


22  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

The  common  supper  that  we  had  every  night  was  very 
cheerful  Just  before  the  men  came  out  of  the  field,  a 
large  faggot  was  flung  on  the  fire ;  the  wood  used  to 
crackle  and  blaze,  and  smell  delightfully ;  and  then  the 
crickets,  for  they  loved  the  fire,  they  used  to  sing ;  and 
old  Spot,  the  shepherd,  who  loved  the  fire  as  well  as  the 
crickets  did,  he  used  to  take  his  place  in  the  chimney 
corner ;  after  the  hottest  day  in  summer,  there  old  Spot 
used  to  sit.  It  was  a  seat  within  the  fireplace,  quite 
under  the  chimney,  and  over  his  head  the  bacon  hung. 

When  old  Spot  was  seated,  the  milk  was  hung  in  a 
skillet  over  the  fire,  and  then  the  men  used  to  come  and 
sit  down  at  the  long  white  table. 

Pardon  me,  my  dear  Louisa,  that  I  interrupted  you 
here.  You  are  a  little  woman  now  to  what  you  were 
then  ;  and  I  may  say  to  you,  that  though  I  loved  to  hear 
you  prattle  of  your  early  recollections,  I  thought  I  per- 
ceived some  ladies  present  were  rather  weary  of  hearing 
so  much  of  the  visit  to  grandmamma.  You  may  re- 
member I  asked  you  some  questions  concerning  your  papa, 
and  mamma,  which  led  you  to  speak  of  your  journey 
home  ;  but  your  little  town-bred  head  was  so  full  of  the 
pleasures  of  a  country  life,  that  you  first  made  many 
apologies  that  you  were  unable  to  tell  what  happened 
during  the  harvest,  as  unfortunately  you  were  fetched 
home  the  very  day  before  it  began. 


ANN  WITHERS. 

MY  name  you  know  is  Withers,  but  as  I  once  thought 
I  was  the  daughter  of  Sir  Edward  and  Lady  Harriot 
Lesley,  I  shall  speak  of  myself  as  Miss  Lesley,  and  call 
Sir  Edward  and  Lady  Harriot  my  father  and  mother 
during  the  period  I  supposed  them  entitled  to  those 


THE  CHANGELING.  23 

beloved  names.  When  I  was  a  little  girl,  it  was  the 
perpetual  subject  of  my  contemplation  that  I  was  an 
heiress,  and  the  daughter  of  a  baronet ;  that  my  mother 
was  the  Honourable  Lady  Harriot ;  that  we  had  a 
nobler  mansion,  infinitely  finer  pleasure  grounds,  and 
equipages  more  splendid  than  any  of  the  neighbouring 
families.  Indeed,  my  good  friends,  having  observed 
nothing  of  this  error  of  mine  in  either  of  the  lives  which 
have  hitherto  been  related,  I  am  ashamed  to  confess 
what  a  proud  child  I  once  was.  How  it  happened  I 
cannot  tell,  for  my  father  was  esteemed  the  best  bred 
man  in  the  country,  and  the  condescension  and  affability 
of  my  mother  were  universally  spoken  of. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Miss ,  "  it  was  very 

natural  indeed,  if  you  supposed  you  possessed  these  ad- 
vantages. We  make  no  comparative  figure  in  the  county, 
and  my  father  was  originally  a  man  of  no  consideration 
at  all ;  and  yet  I  can  assure  you,  both  he  and  mamma 
had  a  prodigious  deal  of  trouble  to  break  me  off  this 
infirmity  when  I  was  very  young." — "  And  do  reflect  for 
a  moment,"  said  Miss  Villiers,  "from  whence  could  pro- 
ceed any  pride  in  me — a  poor  curate's  daughter; — at 
least  any  pride  worth  speaking  of;  for  the  difficulty  my 
father  had  to  make  me  feel  myself  on  an  equality  with  a 
miller's  little  daughter  who  visited  me,  did  not  seem  an 
anecdote  worth  relating.  My  father,  from  his  profession, 
is  accustomed  to  look  into  these  things,  and  whenever 
he  has  observed  any  tendency  to  this  fault  in  me,  and 
has  made  me  sensible  of  my  error,  I,  who  am  rather  a 
weak-spirited  girl,  have  been  so  much  distressed  at  his 
reproofs,  that  to  restore  me  to  my  own  good  opinion 
he  would  make  me  sensible  that  pride  is  a  defect 
inseparable  from  human  nature ;  showing  me,  in  our 
visits  to  the  poorest  labourers,  how  pride  would,  as  he 
expressed  it,  '  prettily  peep  out  from  under  their  ragged 
garbs.'  My  father  dearly  loved  the  poor.  In  persons 
of  a  rank  superior  to  our  own  humble  one,  I  wanted  not 
much  assistance  from  my  father's  nice  discernment  to 


24  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL, 

know  that  it  existed  there ;  and  for  these  latter  he  would 
always  claim  that  toleration  from  me,  which  he  said  he 
observed  I  was  less  willing  to  allow  than  to  the  former 
instances.  '  We  are  told  in  Holy  Writ,'  he  would  say, 
'  that  it  is  easier  for  a  camel  to  go  through  the  eye  of  a 
needle,  than  for  a  rich  man  to  enter  into  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.  Surely  this  is  not  meant  alone  to  warn  the 
affluent ;  it  must  also  be  understood  as  an  expressive 
illustration,  to  instruct  the  lowly-fortuned  man,  that  he 
should  bear  with  those  imperfections,  inseparable  from 
that  dangerous  prosperity  from  which  he  is  happily 
exempt.'  But  we  sadly  interrupt  your  story." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  ladies,  to  speak  with  so  much 
indulgence  of  my  foible,"  said  Miss  Withers,  and  was 
going  to  proceed,  when  little  Louisa  Manners  asked, 
"Pray,  are  not  equipages  carriages?" — "Yes,  Miss 
Manners,  an  equipage  is  a  carriage." — "  Then  I  am  sure 
if  my  papa  had  but  one  equipage  I  should  be  very  proud ; 
for  once  when  my  papa  talked  of  keeping  a  one-horse 
chaise,  I  never  was  so  proud  of  anything  in  my  life ;  I 
used  to  dream  of  riding  in  it,  and  imagine  I  saw  my 
playfellows  walking  past  me  in  the  streets." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Miss  Manners,"  replied  Miss  Withers, 
"Your  young  head  might  well  run  on  a  thing  so  new  to 
you ;  but  you  have  preached  a  useful  lesson  to  me  in 
your  own  pretty  rambling  story,  which  I  shall  not  easily 
forget.  When  you  were  speaking  with  such  delight  of 
the  pleasure  the  sight  of  a  farmyard,  an  orchard,  and  a 
narrow  slip  of  kitchen-garden  gave  you,  and  could  for 
years  preserve  so  lively  the  memory  of  one  short  ride, 
and  that  probably  through  a  flat  uninteresting  country,  I 
remembered  how  early  I  learned  to  disregard  the  face  of 
Nature,  unless  she  were  decked  in  picturesque  scenery ; 
how  wearisome  our  parks  and  grounds  became  to  me, 
unless  some  improvements  were  going  forward  which  I 
thought  would  attract  notice ;  but  those  days  are  gone  ! " 
— I  will  now  proceed  in  my  story,  and  bring  you 
acquainted  with  my  real  parents. 


THE  CHANGELING.  25 

Alas  !  I  am  a  changeling,  substituted  by  my  mother 
for  the  heiress  of  the  Lesley  family ;  it  was  for  my  sake 
she  did  this  naughty  deed ;  yet,  since  the  truth  lias  been 
known,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  been  the  only  sufferer 
by  it ;  remembering  no  time  when  I  was  not  Harriot 
Lesley,  it  seems  as  if  the  change  had  taken  from  me  my 
birthright. 

Lady  Harriot  had  intended  to  nurse  her  child  herself ; 
but  being  seized  with  a  violent  fever  soon  after  its  birth, 
she  was  not  only  unable  to  nurse  it,  but  even  to  see  it 
for  several  weeks.  I  was  not  quite  a  month  old  at  this 
time,  when  my  mother  was  hired  to  be  Mrs.  Lesley's 
nurse — she  had  once  been  a  servant  in  the  family — her 
husband  was  then  at  sea. 

She  had  been  nursing  Miss  Lesley  a  few  days,  when 
a  girl  who  had  the  care  of  me  brought  me  into  the 
nursery  to  see  my  mother.  It  happened  that  she  wanted 
something  from  her  own  home,  which  she  despatched 
the  girl  to  fetch,  and  desired  her  to  leave  me  till  her 
return.  In  her  absence  she  changed  our  clothes ;  then 
keeping  me  to  personate  the  child  she  was  nursing,  she 
sent  away  the  daughter  of  Sir  Edward  to  be  brought  up 
in  her  own  poor  cottage. 

When  my  mother  sent  away  the  girl,  she  affirmed  she 
had  not  the  least  intention  of  committing  this  bad  action ; 
but  after  she  was  left  alone  with  us,  she  looked  on  me, 
and  then  on  the  little  lady-babe,  and  she  wept  over  me, 
to  think  she  was  obliged  to  leave  me  to  the  charge  of  a 
careless  girl,  debarred  from  my  own  natural  food,  while 
she  was  nursing  another  person's  child. 

The  laced  cap  and  the  fine  cambric  robe  of  the  little 
Harriot  were  lying  on  the  table  ready  to  be  put  on  :  in 
these  she  dressed  me,  only  just  to  see  how  pretty  her 
own  dear  baby  would  look  in  missy's  fine  clothes.  When 
she  saw  me  thus  adorned,  she  said  to  me,  "  Oh,  my  dear 
Ann,  you  look  as  like  Missy  as  anything  can  be.  I  am 
sure  my  lady  herself,  if  she  were  well  enough  to  see  you, 
would  not  know  the  difference."  She  said  these  words 


26  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

aloud,  and  while  she  was  speaking,  a  wicked  thought 
came  into  her  head — how  easy  it  would  be  to  change 
these  children !  On  which  she  hastily  dressed  Harriot 
in  my  coarse  raiment.  She  had  no  sooner  finished  the 
transformation  of  Miss  Lesley  into  the  poor  Ann  Withers, 
than  the  girl  returned  and  carried  her  away,  without  the 
least  suspicion  that  it  was  not  the  same  infant  that  she 
had  brought  thither. 

It  was  wonderful  that  no  one  discovered  that  I  was 
not  the  same  child.  Every  fresh  face  that  came  into 
the  room  filled  the  nurse  with  terror.  The  servants  still 
continued  to  pay  their  compliments  to  the  baby  in  the 
same  form  as  usual,  saying,  how  like  it  is  to  its  papa ! 
Nor^  did  Sir  Edward  himself  perceive  the  difference,  his 
lady's  illness  probably  engrossing  all  his  attention  at  the 
time;  though,  indeed,  gentlemen  seldom  take  much  notice 
of  very  young  children. 

When  Lady  Harriot  began  to  recover,  and  the  nurse 
saw  me  in  her  arms  caressed  as  her  own  child,  all  fears 
of  detection  were  over;  but  the  pangs  of  remorse  then 
seized  her ;  as  the  dear  sick  lady  hung  with  tears  of 
fondness  over  me,  she  thought  she  should  have  died  with 
sorrow  for  having  so  cruelly  deceived  her. 

When  I  was  a  year  old  Mrs.  Withers  was  discharged ; 
and  because  she  had  been  observed  to  nurse  me  with 
uncommon  care  and  affection,  and  was  seen  to  shed  many 
tears  at  parting  from  me,  to  reward  her  fidelity,  Sir 
Edward  settled  a  small  pension  on  her,  and  she  was 
allowed  to  come  every  Sunday  to  dine  in  the  house- 
keeper's room,  and  see  her  little  lady. 

When  she  went  home,  it  might  have  been  expected 
she  would  have  neglected  the  child  she  had  so  wickedly 
stolen ;  instead  of  which  she  nursed  it  with  the  greatest 
tenderness,  being  very  sorry  for  what  she  had  done ;  all 
the  ease  she  could  ever  find  for  her  troubled  conscience, 
was  in  her  extreme  care  of  this  injured  child ;  and  in 
the  weekly  visits  to  its  father's  house  she  constantly 
brought  it  with  her.  At  the  time  I  have  the  earliest 


THE  CHANGELING.  27 

recollection  of  her,  she  was  become  a  widow,  and  with 
the  pension  Sir  Edward  allowed  her,  and  some  plain 
work  she  did  for  our  family,  she  maintained  herself  and 
her  supposed  daughter.  The  doting  fondness  she  showed 
for  her  child  was  much  talked  of;  it  was  said  she  waited 
upon  it  more  like  a  servant  than  a  mother ;  and  it  was 
observed  its  clothes  were  always  made,  as  far  as  her 
slender  means  would  permit,  in  the  same  fashion,  and 
her  hair  cut  and  curled  in  the  same  fonn  as  mine.  To 
this  person,  as  having  been  my  faithful  nurse,  and  to 
her  child,  I  was  always  taught  to  show  particular  civility, 
and  the  little  girl  was  always  brought  into  the  nursery 
to  play  with  me.  Ann  was  a  little  delicate  thing,  and 
remarkably  well-behaved ;  for  though  so  much  indulged 
in  every  other  respect,  my  mother  was  very  attentive  to 
her  manners. 

As  the  child  grew  older,  my  mother  became  very 
uneasy  about  her  education.  She  was  so  very  desirous 
of  having  her  well-behaved,  that  she  feared  to  send  her 
to  school,  lest  she  should  learn  ill  manners  among  the 
village  children,  with  whom  she  never  suffered  her  to 
play ;  and  she  was  such  a  poor  scholar  herself,  that  she 
could  teach  her  little  or  nothing.  I  heard  her  relate 
this  her  distress  to  my  own  maid,  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
and  I  formed  a  resolution  to  beg  of  my  parents  that  I 
might  have  Ann  for  a  companion,  and  that  she  might  be 
allowed  to  take  lessons  with  me  of  my  governess. 

My  birthday  was  then  approaching,  and  on  that  day 
I  was  always  indulged  in  the  privilege  of  asking  some 
peculiar  favour. 

"  And  what  boon  has  my  annual  petitioner  to  beg  to- 
day?" said  my  father,  as  he  entered  the  breakfast-room 
on  the  morning  of  my  birthday.  Then  I  told  him  of 
the  great  anxiety  expressed  by  Nurse  Withers  concerning 
her  daughter ;  how  much  she  wished  it  was  in  her  power 
to  give  her  an  education  that  would  enable  her  to  get 
her  living  without  hard  labour.  I  set  the  good  qualities 
of  Ann  Withers  in  the  best  light  I  could,  and  in  con- 


28  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

elusion,  I  begged  she  might  be  permitted  to  partake  with 
me  in  education,  and  become  my  companion.  "  This  is 
a  very  serious  request  indeed,  Harriot,"  said  Sir  Edward  ; 
"  your  mother  and  I  must  consult  together  on  the  sub- 
ject." The  result  of  this  conversation  was  favourable  to 
my  wishes ;  in  a  few  weeks  my  foster-sister  was  taken 
into  the  house,  and  placed  under  the  tuition  of  my 
governess. 

To  me,  who  had  hitherto  lived  without  any  com- 
panions of  iny  own  age  except  occasional  visitors,  the 
idea  of  a  playfellow  constantly  to  associate  with  was 
very  pleasant ;  and  after  the  first  shyness  of  feeling  her 
altered  situation  was  over,  Ann  seemed  as  much  at  her 
ease  as  if  she  had  always  been  brought  up  in  our  house. 
I  became  very  fond  of  her,  and  took  pleasure  in  showing 
her  all  manner  of  attentions ;  which  so  far  won  on  her 
affections,  that  she  told  me  she  had  a  secret  intrusted  to 
her  by  her  mother,  which  she  had  promised  never  to 
reveal  as  long  as  her  mother  lived,  but  that  she  almost 
wished  to  confide  it  to  me,  because  I  was  such  a  kind 
friend  to  her ;  yet,  having  promised  never  to  tell  it  till 
the  death  of  her  mother,  she  was  afraid  to  tell  it  to  me. 
At  first  I  assured  her  that  I  would  never  press  her  to  the 
disclosure,  for  that  promises  of  secrecy  were  to  be  held 
sacred ;  but  whenever  we  fell  into  any  confidential  kind 
of  conversation,  this  secret  seemed  always  ready  to  come 
out.  Whether  she  or  I  were  most  to  blame,  I  know 
not,  though  I  own  I  could  not  help  giving  frequent  hints 
how  well  I  could  keep  a  secret.  At  length  she  told  me 
what  I  have  before  related,  namely,  that  she  was  in 
truth  the  daughter  of  Sir  Edward  and  Lady  Lesley,  and 
I  the  child  of  her  supposed  mother. 

When  I  was  first  in  possession  of  this  wonderful 
secret,  my  heart  burned  to  reveal  it.  I  thought  how 
praiseworthy  it  would  be  in  me  to  restore  to  my  friend 
the  rights  of  her  birth ;  yet  I  thought  only  of  becoming 
her  patroness,  and  raising  her  to  her  proper  rank;  it 
never  occurred  to  me  that  my  own  degradation  must 


THE  CHANGELING.  29 

necessarily  follow.  I  endeavoured  to  persuade  her  to  let 
me  tell  this  important  affair  to  my  parents :  this  she 
positively  refused.  I  expressed  wonder  that  she  should 
so  faithfully  keep  this  secret  for  an  unworthy  woman, 
who  in  her  infancy  had  done  her  such  an  injury. 

"Oh!"  said  she,  "you  do  not  know  how  much  she 
loves  me,  or  you  would  not  wonder  that  I  never  resent 
that.  I  have  seen  her  grieve  and  be  so  very  sorry  on 
my  account,  that  I  would  not  bring  her  into  more  trouble 
for  any  good  that  could  happen  to  myself.  She  has 
often  told  me,  that  since  the  day  she  changed  us,  she 
has  never  known  what  it  is  to  have  a  happy  moment ; 
and  when  she  returned  home  from  nursing  you,  finding 
me  very  thin  and  sickly,  how  her  heart  smote  her  for 
what  she  had  done ;  and  then  she  nursed  and  fed  me 
with  such  anxious  care,  that  she  grew  much  fonder 
of  me  than  if  I  had  been  her  own  ;  and  that  on  the 
Sundays,  when  she  used  to  bring  me  here,  it  was  more 
pleasure  to  her  to  see  me  in  my  own  father's  house, 
than  it  was  to  her  to  see  you,  her  real  child.  The  shy- 
ness you  showed  towards  her  while  you  were  very  young, 
and  the  forced  civility  you  seemed  to  affect  as  you  grew 
older,  always  appeared  like  ingratitude  towards  her  who 
had  done  so  much  for  you.  My  mother  has  desired  me 
to  disclose  this  after  her  death,  but  I  do  not  believe  I 
shall  ever  mention  it  then,  for  I  should  be  sorry  to  bring 
any  reproach  even  on  her  memory." 

In  a  short  time  after  this  important  discovery,  Ann 
was  sent  home  to  pass  a  few  weeks  with  her  mother,  on 
the  occasion  of  the  unexpected  arrival  of  some  visitors  to 
our  house ;  they  were  to  bring  children  with  them,  and 
these  I  was  to  consider  as  my  own  guests. 

In  the  expected  arrival  of  my  young  visitants,  and  in 
making  preparations  to  entertain  them,  I  had  little  leisure 
to  deliberate  on  what  conduct  I  should  pursue  with  regard 
to  my  friend's  secret.  Something  must  be  done,  I 
thought,  to  make  her  amends  for  the  injury  she  had 
sustained,  and  I  resolved  to  consider  the  matter  atten- 


30  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

lively  on  her  return.  Still  my  mind  ran  on  conferring 
favours.  I  never  considered  myself  as  transformed  into 
the  dependent  person.  Indeed,  Sir  Edward  at  this  time 
set  me  about  a  task  which  occupied  the  whole  of  my 
attention ;  he  proposed  that  I  should  write  a  little  inter- 
lude, after  the  manner  of  the  French  Petites  Pieces  ;  and 
to  tiy  my  ingenuity,  no  one  was  to  see  it  before  the 
representation,  except  the  performers,  myself,  and  my 
little  friends,  who,  as  they  were  all  younger  than  me,  could 
not  be  expected  to  lend  me  much  assistance.  I  have 
already  told  you  what  a  proud  girl  I  was.  During  the 
writing  of  this  piece,  the  receiving  of  my  young  friends, 
and  the  instructing  them  in  their  several  parts,  I  never 
felt  myself  of  so  much  importance.  With  Ann,  my  pride 
had  somewhat  slumbered ;  the  difference  of  our  rank  left 
no  room  for  competition  ;  all  was  complacency  and  good- 
humour  on  my  part,  and  affectionate  gratitude,  tempered 
with  respect,  on  hers.  But  here  I  had  full  room  to  show 
courtesy,  to  affect  those  graces,  to  imitate  that  elegance 
of  manners  practised  by  Lady  Harriot  to  their  mothers. 
I  was  to  be  their  instructress  in  action  and  in  attitudes, 
and  to  receive  their  praises  and  their  admiration  of  my 
theatrical  genius.  It  was  a  new  scene  of  triumph  for  me, 
and  I  might  then  be  said  to  be  in  the  very  height  of  my 
glory. 

If  the  plot  of  my  piece,  for  the  invention  of  which 
they  so  highly  praised  me,  had  been  indeed  my  own,  all 
would  have  been  well ;  but  unhappily  I  borrowed  from  a 
source  which  made  my  drama  end  far  differently  from 
what  I  intended  it  should.  In  the  catastrophe  I  lost  not 
only  the  name  I  personated  in  the  piece,  but  with  it  my 
own  name  also ;  and  all  my  rank  and  consequence  in  the 
world  fled  from  me  for  ever.  My  father  presented  me 
with  a  beautiful  writing-desk  for  the  use  of  my  new 
authorship  ;  my  silver  standish  was  placed  upon  it ;  a 
quire  of  gilt  paper  was  before  me.  I  took  out  a  parcel 
of  my  best  crow  quills,  and  down  I  sat  in  the  greatest 
form  imaginable. 


THE  CHANGELING.  31 

I  conjecture  I  have  no  talent  for  invention ;  certain  it 
is,  that  when  I  sat  down  to  compose  my  piece,  no  story 
would  come  into  my  head,  but  the  story  which  Ann  had 
so  lately  related  to  me.  Many  sheets  were  scrawled 
over  in  vain,  I  could  think  of  nothing  else ;  still  the 
babies  and  the  nurse  were  before  me  in  all  the  minutiae 
of  description  Ann  had  given  them.  The  costly  attire  of 
the  lady-babe — the  homely  garb  of  the  cottage-infant — 
the  affecting  address  of  the  fond  mother  to  her  own 
offspring — then  the  charming  equivoque  in  the  change  of 
the  children ;  it  all  looked  so  dramatic ; — it  was  a  play 
ready-made  to  my  hands.  The  invalid  mother  would 
form  the  pathetic,  the  silly  exclamations  of  the  servants 
the  ludicrous,  and  the  nurse  was  nature  itself.  It  is  true, 
I  had  a  few  scruples  that  it  might,  should  it  come  to  the 
knowledge  of  Ann,  be  construed  into  something  very  like 
a  breach  of  confidence.  But  she  was  at  home,  and  might 
never  happen  to  hear  of  the  subject  of  my  piece,  and  if 
she  did,  why,  it  was  only  making  some  handsome  apology. 
To  a  dependent  companion,  to  whom  I  had  been  so  very 
great  a  friend,  it  was  not  necessary  to  be  so  very  particular 
about  such  a  trifle. 

Thus  I  reasoned  as  I  wrote  my  drama*,  beginning  with 
the  title,  which  I  called  "  The  Changeling,"  and  ending 
with  these  words  :  The  curtain  drops,  while  the  lady 
clasps  the  baby  in  her  arms,  and  the  nurse  sighs  audibly. 
I  invented  no  new  incident ;  I  simply  wrote  the  story  as 
Ann  had  told  it  to  me,  in  the  best  blank  verse  I  was  able 
to  compose. 

By  the  time  it  was  finished,  the  company  had  arrived. 
The  casting  the  different  parts  was  my  next  care.  The 
Honourable  Augustus  M — — ,  a  young  gentleman  of  five 
years  of  age,  undertook  to  play  the  father.  He  was  only 
to  come  in  and  say,  How  does  my  little  darling  do  to- 
day ?  The  three  Miss s  were  to  be  the  servants ; 

they  too  had  only  single  lines  to  speak. 

As  these  four  were  all  very  young  performers,  we 
made  them  rehearse  many  times  over,  that  they  might 


32  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

walk  in  and  out  with  proper  decorum ;  but  the  perform- 
ance was  stopped  before  their  entrances  and  their  exits 
arrived.  I  complimented  Lady  Elizabeth,  the  sister  of 
Augustus,  who  was  the  eldest  of  the  young  ladies,  with 
the  choice  of  the  lady  mother  or  the  nurse.  She  fixed 
on  the  former  ;  she  was  to  recline  on  a  sofa,  and,  affect- 
ing ill  health,  speak  some  eight  or  ten  lines,  which  began 
with — 0  that  I  could  my  precious  baby  see  !  To  her 

cousin  Miss  Emily  ,  was  given  the  girl  who  had 

the  care  of  the  nurse's  child ;  two  dolls  were  to  personate 
the  two  children ;  and  the  principal  character  of  the  nurse 
I  had  the  pleasure  to  perform  myself.  It  consisted  of 
several  speeches,  and  a  very  long  soliloquy  during  the 
changing  of  the  children's  clothes. 

The  elder  brother  of  Augustus,  a  gentleman  of  fifteen 
years  of  age,  who  refused  to  mix  in  our  childish  drama, 
yet  condescended  to  paint  the  scenes;  and  our  dresses 
were  got  up  by  my  own  maid. 

When  we  thought  ourselves  quite  perfect  in  our  several 
parts,  we  announced  it  for  representation.  Sir  Edward 
and  Lady  Harriot,  with  their  visitors,  the  parents  of  my 
young  troop  of  comedians,  honoured  uw  with  their  presence. 
The  servants  were  also  permitted  to  go  into  a  music- 
gallery,  which  was  at  the  end  of  a  ball-room  we  had 
chosen  for  our  theatre. 

As  author  and  principal  performer,  standing  before  a 
noble  audience,  my  mind  was  too  much  engaged  with 
the  arduous  task  I  had  imdertaken,  to  glance  my  eyes 
towards  the  music-gallery,  or  I  might  have  seen  two 
more  spectators  there  than  I  expected.  Nurse  Withers 
and  her  daughter  Ann  were  there ;  they  had  been  invited 
by  the  housekeeper  to  be  present  at  the  representation 
of  Miss  Lesley's  play. 

In  the  midst  of  the  performance,  as  I,  in  the  character 
of  the  nurse,  was  delivering  the  wrong  child  to  the  girl, 
there  was  an  exclamation  from  the  music-gallery  of  "  Oh  ! 
it's  all  true  !  it's  all  true ! "  This  was  followed  by  a 
bustle  among  the  servants,  and  screams  as  of  a  person  in 


THE  CHANGELING.  33 

an  hysteric  fit.  Sir  Edward  came  forward  to  inquire  what 
was  the  matter.  He  saw  it  was  Mrs.  Withers  who 
had  fallen  into  a  fit.  Ann  was  weeping  over  her,  and 
crying  out,  "  0  Miss  Lesley,  you  have  told  all  in  the 
play!" 

Mrs.  Withers  was  brought  out  into  the  ball-room ; 
there,  with  tears  and  in  broken  accents,  with  every  sign 
of  terror  and  remorse,  she  soon  made  a  full  confession  of 
her  so-long-concealed  guilt. 

The  strangers  assembled  to  see  our  childish  mimicry 
of  passion  were  witnesses  to  a  highly-wrought  dramatic 
scene  in  real  life.  I  had  intended  they  should  see  the 
curtain  drop  without  any  discovery  of  the  deceit ;  unable 
to  invent  any  new  incident,  I  left  the  conclusion  im- 
perfect as  I  found  it ;  but  they  saw  a  more  strict  poetical 
justice  done ;  they  saw  the  rightful  child  restored  to  its 
parents,  and  the  nurse  overwhelmed  with  shame,  and 
threatened  with  the  severest  punishment. 

"  Take  this  woman,"  said  Sir  Edward,  "  and  lock  her 
up,  till  she  be  delivered  into  the  hands  of  justice." 

Ann,  on  her  knees,  implored  mercy  for  her  mother. 
Addressing  the  children,  who  were  gathered  round  her, 
"  Dear  ladies,"  said  she,  "  help  me,  on  your  knees  help 
me,  to  beg  forgiveness  for  my  mother."  Down  the 
young  ones  all  dropped— even  Lady  Elizabeth  bent  on 
her  knee.  "  Sir  Edward,  pity  her  distress,  Sir  Edward, 
pardon  her!"  All  joined  in  the  petition,  except  one 
whose  voice  ought  to  have  been  loudest  in  the  appeal. 
No  word,  no  accent  came  from  me.  I  hung  over  Lady 
Harriot's  chair,  weeping  as  if  my  heart  would  break ; 
but  I  wept  for  my  own  fallen  fortunes,  not  for  my 
mother's  sorrow. 

I  thought  within  myself,  "If  in  the  integrity  of  my 
heart,  refusing  to  participate  in  this  unjust  secret,  I  had 
boldly  ventured  to  publish  the  truth,  I  might  have  had 
some  consolation  in  the  praises  which  so  generous  an 
action  would  have  merited ;  but  it  is  through  the  vanity 
of  being  supposed  to  have  written  a  pretty  story  that  I 

D 


34  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

have  meanly  broken  my  faith  with  my  friend,  and  unin- 
tentionally proclaimed  the  disgrace  of  my  mother  and 
myself."  While  thoughts  like  these  were  passing  through 
my  mind,  Ann  had  obtained  my  mother's  pardon. 
Instead  of  being  sent  away  to  confinement  and  the 
horrors  of  a  prison,  she  was  given  by  Sir  Edward  into 
the  care  of  the  housekeeper,  who  had  orders  from  Lady 
Harriot  to  see  her  put  to  bed  and  properly  attended  to, 
for  again  this  wretched  woman  had  fallen  into  a  fit. 

Ann  would  have  followed  my  mother,  but  Sir  Edward 
brought  her  back,  telling  her  that  she  should  see  her 
•when  she  was  better.  He  then  led  her  towards  Lady 
Harriot,  desiring  her  to  embrace  her  child ;  she  did  so, 
and  I  saw  her,  as  I  had  phrased  it  in  the  play,  clasped  in 
her  mother's  arms. 

This  scene  had  greatly  affected  the  spirits  of  Lady 
Harriot ;  through  the  whole  of  it,  it  was  with  difficulty 
she  had  been  kept  from  fainting,  and  she  was  now  led 
into  the  drawing-room  by  the  ladies.  The  gentlemen 
followed,  talking  with  Sir  Edward  of  the  astonishing 
instance  of  filial  affection  they  had  just  seen  in  the 
earnest  pleadings  of  the  child  for  her  supposed  mother. 

Ann,  too,  went  with  them,  and  was  conducted  by  her 
whom  I  had  always  considered  as  my  own  particular 
friend.  Lady  Elizabeth  took  hold  of  her  hand  and  said, 
"  Miss  Lesley,  will  you  permit  me  to  conduct  you  to  the 
drawing-room  V 

I  was  left  weeping  behind  the  chair  where  Lady 
Harriot  had  sat,  and,  as  I  thought,  quite  alone.  A 
something  had  before  twitched  my  frock  two  or  three 
times  so  slightly  I  had  scarcely  noticed  it ;  a  little  head 
now  peeped  round,  and  looking  up  in  my  face,  said, 
"  She  is  not  Miss  Lesley  !"  It  was  the  young  Augustus  ; 
he  had  been  sitting  at  my  feet,  but  I  had  not  observed 
him.  He  then  started  up,  and  taking  hold  of  my  hand 
with  one  of  his,  with  the  other  holding  fast  by  my 
clothes,  he  led,  or  rather  dragged  me,  into  the  midst  of 
the  company  assembled  in  the  drawing-room.  The 


THE  CHANGELING.  35 

vehemence  of  his  manner,  his  little  face  as  red  as  fire, 
caught  every  eye.  The  ladies  smiled,  and  one  gentleman 
laughed  in  a  most  unfeeling  manner.  His  elder  brother 
patted  him  on  the  head,  and  said,  "  Your  are  a  humane 
little  fellow  :  Elizabeth,  we  might  have  thought  of  this." 

Very  kind  words  were  now  spoken  to  me  by  Sir 
Edward,  and  he  called  me  Harriot,  precious  name  now 
grown  to  me.  Lady  Harriot  kissed  me,  and  said  she 
would  never  forget  how  long  she  had  loved  me  as  her 
child.  These  were  comfortable  words ;  but  I  heard 
echoed  round  the  room,  "  Poor  thing,  she  cannot  help  it 
— I  am  sure  she  is  to  be  pitied.  Dear  Lady  Harriot, 
how  kind,  how  considerate  you  are !"  Ah !  what  a 
deep  sense  of  my  altered  condition  did  I  then  feel ! 

"  Let  the  young  ladies  divert  themselves  in  another 
room,"  said  Sir  Edward;  "and,  Harriot,  take  your  new 
sister  with  you,  and  help  her  to  entertain  your  friends." 
Yes,  he  called  me  Harriot  again,  and  afterwards  invented 
new  names  for  his  daughter  and  me,  and  always  called 
us  by  them,  apparently  in  jest ;  yet  I  knew  it  was  only 
because  he  would  not  hurt  me  with  hearing  our  names 
reversed.  When  Sir  Edward  desired  us  to  show  the 
children  into  another  room,  Ann  and  I  walked  towards 
the  door.  A  new  sense  of  humiliation  arose — how  could 
I  go  out  at  the  door  before  Miss  Lesley? — I  stood 
irresolute ;  she  drew  back.  The  elder  brother  of  my 
friend  Augustus  assisted  me  in  this  perplexity ;  pushing 
us  all  forward,  as  if  in  a  playful  mood,  he  drove  us  indis- 
criminately before  him,  saying,  "  I  will  make  one  among 
you  t')-day."  He  had  never  joined  in  our  sports  before. 

My  luckless  play,  that  sad  instance  of  my  duplicity, 
was  never  once  mentioned  to  me  afterwards,  not  even 
by  any  one  of  the  children  who  had  acted  in  it ;  and  I 
must  also  tell  you  how  considerate  an  old  lady  was  at 
the  time  about  our  dresses.  As  soon  as  she  perceived 
things  growing  very  serious,  she  hastily  stripped  off  the 
upper  garments  we  wore  to  represent  our  different  cha- 
racters. I  think  I  should  have  died  with  shame  if  the 


36  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

child  had  led  me  into  the  drawing-room  in  the  mummery 
I  had  worn  to  represent  a  nurse.  This  good  lady  was 
of  another  essential  service  to  me  ;  for  perceiving  an 
irresolution  in  every  one  how  they  should  behave  to  us, 
which  distressed  me  very  much,  she  contrived  to  place 
Miss  Lesley  above  me  at  table,  and  called  her  Miss 
Lesley,  and  me  Miss  Withers ;  saying  at  the  same  time 
in  a  low  voice,  but  as  if  she  meant  I  should  hear  her, 
"  It  is  better  these  things  should  be  done  at  once,  then 
they  are  over."  My  heart  thanked  her,  for  I  felt  the 
truth  of  what  she  said. 

My  poor  mother  continued  very  ill  for  many  weeks ; 
no  medicine  could  remove  the  extreme  dejection  of  spirits 
she  laboured  under.  Sir  Edward  sent  for  the  clergyman 
of  the  parish  to  give  her  religious  consolation.  Every 
day  he  came  to  visit  her,  and  he  would  always  take  Miss 
Lesley  and  me  into  the  room  with  him.  I  think,  Misa 
Villiers,  your  father  must  be  just  such  another  man  as 
Dr.  Wheelding,  our  worthy  rector;  just  so  I  think  he 
would  have  soothed  the  troubled  conscience  of  my  repent- 
ant mother.  How  feelingly,  how  kindly  he  used  to  talk 
of  mercy  and  forgiveness  ! 

My  heart  was  softened  by  my  own  misfortunes  and 
the  sight  of  my  penitent  suffering  mother.  I  felt  that 
she  was  now  my  only  parent ;  I  strove,  earnestly  strove 
to  love  her;  yet  ever  when  I  looked  in  her  face,  she 
would  seem  to  me  to  be  the  very  identical  person  whom 
I  should  have  once  thought  sufficiently  honoured  by  a 
slight  inclination  of  the  head,  and  a  civil  "  How  do  you 
do,  Mrs.  Withers  1"  One  day,  as  Miss  Lesley  was 
hanging  over  her  with  her  accustomed  fondness,  Dr. 
Wheelding  reading  in  a  prayer-book,  and,  as  I  thought, 
not  at  that  moment  regarding  us,  I  threw  myself  on  my 
knees  and  silently  prayed  that  I  too  might  be  able  to 
love  my  mother. 

Dr.  Wbeelding  had  been  observing  me ;  he  took  me 
into  the  garden,  and  drew  from  me  the  subject  of  my 
petition. 


THE  CHANGELING.  37 

"  Your  prayers,  my  good  young  lady,"  said  he,  "  I 
hope  are  heard ;  sure  I  am  they  have  caused  me  to  adopt 
a  resolution  which,  as  it  will  enable  you  to  see  your 
mother  frequently,  will,  I  hope,  greatly  assist  your  pious 
wishes.  I  will  take  your  mother  home  with  me  to  super- 
intend my  family.  Under  my  roof,  doubtless,  Sir  Edward 
will  often  permit  you  to  see  her.  Perform  your  duty 
towards  her  as  well  as  you  possibly  can.  Affection  is 
the  growth  of  time.  With  such  good  wishes  in  your 
young  heart,  do  not  despair  that  in  due  time  it  will 
assuredly  spring  up." 

With  the  approbation  of  Sir  Edward  and  Lady  Harriot, 
my  mother  was  removed  in  a  few  days  to  Dr.  Wheelding's 
house.  There  she  soon  recovered ;  there  she  at  present 
resides.  She  tells  me  she  loves  me  almost  as  well  as 
she  did  when  I  was  a  baby,  and  we  both  wept  at  parting 
when  I  came  to  school. 

Here,  perhaps,  I  ought  to  conclude  my  story,  which  I 
fear  has  been  a  tedious  one  ;  permit  me,  however,  to  say 
a  few  words  concerning  the  time  which  elapsed  since  the 
discovery  of  my  birth  until  my  arrival  here. 

It  was  on  the  fifth  day  of that  I  was  known  to 

be  Ann  Withers,  and  the  daughter  of  my  supposed  nurse. 
The  company  who  were  witness  to  my  disgrace  departed 
in  a  few  days,  and  I  felt  relieved  from  some  part  of  the 
mortification  I  hourly  experienced.  For  every  fresh 
instance  even  of  kindness  or  attention  I  experienced  went 
to  my  heart,  that  I  should  be  forced  to  feel  thankful 
for  it. 

Circumstanced  as  I  was,  surely  I  had  nothing  justly 
to  complain  of.  The  conduct  of  Sir  Edward  and  Lady 
Harriot  was  kind  in  the  extreme ;  still  preserving  every 
appearance  of  a  parental  tenderness  for  me,  but  ah  !  I 
might  no  longer  call  them  by  the  dear  names  of  father 
and  mother.  Formerly,  when  speaking  of  them,  I  used, 
proud  of  their  titles,  to  delight  to  say,  "  Sir  Edward  or 
Lady  Harriot  did  this,  or  this  ;"  now  I  would  give  worlds 
to  say,  "  My  father  or  my  mother." 


38  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

I  should  be  perfectly  unkind  if  I  were  to  complain  of 
Miss  Lesley — indeed,  I  have  not  the  least  cause  of  com- 
plaint against  her.  As  my  companion,  her  affection  and 
her  gratitude  had  been  unbounded ;  and  now  that  it  was 
my  turn  to  be  the  humble  friend,  she  tried  by  every 
means  in  her  power  to  make  me  think  she  felt  the  same 
respectful  gratitude  which  in  her  dependent  station  she 
had  so  naturally  displayed. 

Only  in  a  few  rarely  constituted  minds  does  that  true 
attentive  kindness  spring  up,  that  delicacy  of  feeling, 
which  enters  into  every  trivial  thing,  is  ever  awake  and 
keeping  watch  lest  it  should  offend.  Myself,  though 
educated  with  the  extremest  care,  possessed  but  little  of 
this  virtue.  Virtue  I  call  it,  though  among  men  it  is 
termed  politeness  ;  for  since  the  days  of  my  humiliating 
reverse  of  fortune  I  have  learned  its  value. 

I  feel  quite  ashamed  to  give  instances  of  any  deficiency 
I  observed,  or  thought  I  have  observed,  in  Miss  Lesley. 
Now  I  am  away  from  her,  and  dispassionately  speaking 
of  it,  it  seems  as  if  my  own  soreness  of  temper  had  made 
me  fancy  things.  I  really  believe  now  that  I  was  mistaken ; 
but  Miss  Lesley  had  been  so  highly  praised  for  her  filial 
tenderness,  I  thought  at  last  she  seemed  to  make  a  parade 
about  it,  and  used  to  run  up  to  my  mother,  and  affect  to 
be  more  glad  to  see  her  than  she  really  was  after  a  time ; 
and  I  think  Dr.  Wheelding  thought  so  by  a  little  hint 
he  once  dropped.  But  he,  too,  might  be  mistaken,  for 
he  was  very  partial  to  me. 

I  am  under  the  greatest  obligation  in  the  world  to 
this  good  Dr.  Wheelding.  He  has  made  my  mother 
quite  a  respectable  woman,  and  I  am  sure  it  is  owing 
a  great  deal  to  him  that  she  loves  me  so  well  as  she  does. 

And  here,  though  it  may  seem  a  little  out  of  place, 
let  me  stop  to  assure  you,  that  if  I  ever  could  have  had 
any  doubt  of  the  sincerity  of  Miss  Lesley's  affection 
towards  me,  her  behaviour  on  the  occasion  of  my  coming 
here  ought  completely  to  efface  it.  She  entreated  with 
many  tears,  and  almost  the  same  energy  with  which  she 


THE  CHANGELING.  39 

pleaded  for  forgiveness  for  my  mother,  that  I  might  not 
be  sent  away.  But  she  was  not  alike  successful  in  her 
supplications. 

Miss  Lesley  had  made  some  progress  in  reading  and 
writing  during  the  time  she  was  my  companion  only; 
it  was  highly  necessary  that  every  exertion  should  be 
now  made — the  whole  house  was,  as  I  may  say,  in 
requisition  for  her  instruction  ;  Sir  Edward  and  Lady 
Harriot  devoted  great  part  of  the  day  to  this  purpose. 
A  well-educated  youug  person  was  taken  under  our 
governess  to  assist  her  in  her  labours,  and  to  teach  Miss 
Lesley  music.  A  drawing-master  was  engaged  to  reside 
in  the  house. 

At  this  time  I  was  not  remarkably  forward  in  my 
education.  My  governess  being  a  native  of  France,  I 
spoke  French  very  correctly,  and  I  had  made  some  pro- 
gress in  Italian ;  but  I  had  had  the  instmction  of  masters 
only  during  the  few  months  in  the  year  we  usually  passed 
in  London. 

Music  I  never  had  the  least  ear  for ;  I  could  scarcely 
be  taught  my  notes.  This  defect  in  me  was  always  par- 
ticularly regretted  by  my  mother,  she  being  an  excellent 
performer  herself,  both  on  the  piano  and  on  the  harp. 
I  think  I  have  some  taste  for  drawing;  but  as  Lady 
Harriot  did  not  particularly  excel  in  this,  I  lost  so  much 
time  in  the  summer  months,  practising  only  under  my 
governess,  that  I  made  no  great  proficiency  even  in 
this  my  favourite  art.  But  Miss  Lesley,  with  all  these 
advantages  which  I  have  named, — everybody  so  eager  to 
instruct  her,  she  so  willing  to  learn — everything  so  new 
and  delightful  to  her,  how  could  it  happen  otherwise  1 
she  in  a  short  time  became  a  little  prodigy.  What  best 
pleased  Lady  Harriot  was,  after  she  had  conquered  the 
first  difficulties,  she  discovered  a  wonderful  talent  for 
music.  Here  she  was  her  mother's  own  girl  indeed — she 
had  the  same  sweet-toned  voice — the  same  delicate  finger. 
Her  musical  governess  had  Little  now  to  do ;  for  as  soon 
as  Lady  Harriot  perceived  this  excellence  in  her,  she 


40  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

gave  up  all  company  and  devoted  her  whole  time  to 
instructing  her  daughter  in  this  science. 

Nothing  makes  the  heart  ache  with  such  a  hopeless, 
heavy  pain,  as  envy. 

I  had  felt  deeply  before,  but  till  now  I  could  not  be 
said  to  envy  Miss  Lesley.  All  day  long  the  notes  of  the 
harp  or  the  piano  spoke  sad  sounds  to  me  of  the  loss  of  a 
loved  mother's  heart. 

To  have  in  a  manner  two  mothers,  and  Miss  Lesley 
to  engross  them  both,  was  too  much  indeed. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  one  day  I  had  been  wearied 
with  hearing  Lady  Harriot  play  one  long  piece  of  Haydn's 
music  after  another  to  her  enraptured  daughter.  We 
were  to  walk  with  our  governess  to  Dr.  Wheelding's  that 
morning ;  and  after  Lady  Harriot  had  left  the  room,  and 
we  were  quite  ready  for  our  walk,  Miss  Lesley  would  not 
leave  the  instrument  for  I  know  not  how  long. 

It  was  on  that  day  that  I  thought  she  was  not  quite 
honest  in  her  expressions  of  joy  at  the  sight  of  my  poor 
mother,  who  had  been  waiting  at  the  garden-gate  near 
two  hours  to  see  her  arrive ;  yet  she  might  be,  for  the 
music  had  put"  her  in  remarkably  good  spirits  that 
morning. 

Oh,  the  music  quite,  quite  won  Lady  Harriot's  heart ! 
Till  Miss  Lesley  began  to  play  so  well,  she  often  lamented 
the  time  it  would  take  before  her  daughter  would  have 
the  air  of  a  person  of  fashion's  child.  It  was  my  part 
of  the  general  instruction  to  give  her  lessons  on  this  head. 
We  used  to  make  a  kind  of  play  of  it,  which  we  called 
lectures  on  fashionable  manners  :  it  was  a  pleasant  amuse- 
ment to  me,  a  sort  of  keeping  up  the  memory  of  past 
times.  But  now  the  music  was  always  in  the  way.  The 
last  time  it  was  talked  of,  Lady  Harriot  said  her  daughter's 
time  was  too  precious  to  be  taken  up  with  such  trifling. 

I  must  own  that  the  music  had  that  effect  on  Miss 
Lesley,  as  to  render  these  lectures  less  necessary,  which 
I  will  explain  to  you ;  but  first  let  me  assure  you  that 
Lady  Harriot  was  by  no  means  in  the  habit  of  sayiug 


THE  CHANGELING.  41 

things  of  this  kind.  It  was  almost  a  solitary  instance ; 
I  could  give  you  a  thousand  instances  the  very  reverse 
of  this,  in  her  as  well  as  in  Sir  Edward.  How  kindly, 
how  frequently,  would  they  remind  me,  that  to  me  alone 
it  was  owing  that  they  ever  knew  their  child  !  calling 
the  day  on  which  I  was  a  petitioner  for  the  admittance 
of  Ann  into  the  house,  the  blessed  birthday  of  their 
generous  girl 

Neither  dancing,  nor  any  foolish  lectures,  could  do 
much  for  Miss  Lesley ;  she  remained  for  some  time 
wanting  in  gracefulness  of  carriage ;  but  all  that  is 
usually  attributed  to  dancing,  music  finally  effected. 
When  she  was  sitting  before  the  instrument,  a  resem- 
blance to  her  mother  became  apparent  to  every  eye. 
Her  attitudes  and  the  expression  of  her  countenance  were 
the  very  same.  This  soon  followed  her  into  everything ; 
all  was  ease  and  natural  grace ;  for  the  music,  and  with 
it  the  idea  of  Lady  Harriot,  was  always  in  her  thoughts. 
It  was  a  pretty  sight  to  see  the  daily  improvement  in  her 
person,  even  to  me,  poor  envious  girl  that  I  was. 

Soon  after  Lady  Harriot  had  hurt  me  by  calling  my 
little  efforts  to  improve  her  daughter  trifling,  she  made 
me  large  amends  in  a  very  kind  and  most  unreserved 
conversation  that  she  held  with  me. 

She  told  me  all  the  struggles  she  had  had  at  first  to 
feel  a  maternal  tenderness  for  her  daughter;  and  she 
frankly  confessed,  that  she  had  now  gained  so  much  on 
her  affections  that  she  feared  she  had  too  much  neglected 
the  solemn  promise  she  had  made  me,  Never  to  forget 
how  long  she  had  loved  me  as  her  child. 

Encouraged  by  her  returning  kindness,  I  owned  how 
much  I  had  suffered ;  and  ventured  to  express  my  fears 
that  I  had  hardly  courage  enough  to  bear  the  sight  of 
my  former  friends  under  a  new  designation,  as  I  must 
now  appear  to  them  on  our  removal  to  London,  which 
was  expected  to  take  place  in  a  short  time. 

A  few  days  after  this  she  told  me  in  the  gentlest 
manner  possible  that  Sir  Edward  and  herself  were  of 


42  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

opinion  it  would  conduce  to  ray  happiness  to  pass  a  year 
or  two  at  school. 

I  knew  that  this  proposal  was  kindly  intended  to 
spare  me  the  mortification  I  so  much  dreaded ;  therefore 
I  endeavoured  to  submit  to  my  hard  fate  with  cheerful- 
ness, and  prepared  myself,  not  without  reluctance,  to 
quit  a  mansion  which  had  been  the  scene  of  so  many 
enjoyments,  and  latterly  of  such  very  different  feelings. 


ELTNOE  FOKESTEE. 

WHEN  I  was  very  young,  I  had  the  misfortune  to  lose 
my  mother.  My  father  very  soon  married  again.  The 
morning  of  the  day  on  which  that  event  took  place,  my 
father  set  me  on  his  knee,  and  as  he  often  used  to  do 
after  the  death  of  my  mother,  he  called  me  his  dear  little 
orphaned  Elinor ;  and  then  he  asked  me  if  I  loved  Miss 
Saville.  I  replied  "  Yes."  Then  he  said,  this  dear  lady 
was  going  to  be  so  kind  as  to  be  married  to  him,  and 
that  she  was  to  live  with  us  and  be  my  mamma.  My 
father  told  me  this  with  such  pleasure  in  his  looks,  that 
I  thought  it  must  be  a  very  fine  thing  indeed  to  have  a 
new  mamma ;  and  on  his  saying  it  was  time  for  me  to 
be  dressed  against  his  return  from  church,  I  ran  in  great 
spirits  to  tell  the  good  news  in  the  nursery.  I  found  my 
maid  and  the  housemaid  looking  out  of  the  window  to 
see  my  father  get  into  his  carriage,  which  was  newly 
painted;  the  servants  had  new  liveries  and  fine  white 
ribands  in  their  hats ;  and  then  I  perceived  my  father 
had  left  off  his  mourning.  The  maids  were  dressed  in 
new  coloured  gowns  and  white  ribands.  On  the  table  I 
saw  a  ne\v  muslin  frock  trimmed  with  fine  lace,  ready  for 
me  to  put  on.  I  skipped  about  the  room  quite  in  an 
ecstasy. 

When  the  carriage  drove  from  the  door,  the  house- 


THE  FATHER'S  WEDDING-DAY.  43 

keeper  came  in  to  bring  the  maids  new  white  gloves.  I 
repeated  to  her  the  words  I  had  just  heard,  that  that 
dear  lady,  Miss  Saville,  was  going  to  be  married  to  papa, 
and  that  she  was  to  live  with  us  and  be  my  mamma. 

The  housekeeper  shook  her  head,  and  said,  "  Poor 
thing  !  how  soon  children  forget  everything  !" 

I  could  not  imagine  what  she  meant  by  my  forgetting 
everything,  for  I  instantly  recollected  poor  mamma  used 
to  say  I  had  an  excellent  memory. 

The  women  began  to  draw  on  their  white  gloves,  and 
the  seams  rending  in  several  places,  Ann  said,  "  This  is 
just  the  way  our  gloves  served  us  at  my  mistress's 
funeral."  The  other  checked  her,  and  said  "Hush  !"  I 
was  then  thinking  of  some  instances  in  which  my  mamma 
had  praised  my  memory,  and  this  reference  to  her  funeral 
fixed  her  idea  in  my  mind. 

From  the  time  of  her  death  no  one  had  ever  spoken 
to  me  of  my  mamma,  and  I  had  apparently  forgotten 
her;  yet  I  had  a  habit,  which  perhaps  had  not  been 
observed,  of  taking  my  little  stool,  which  had  been  my 
mamma's  footstool,  and  a  doll  which  my  mamma  had 
dressed  for  me  while  she  was  sitting  in  her  elbow-chair, 
her  head  supported  with  pillows.  With  these  in  my 
hands,  I  used  to  go  to  the  door  of  the  room  in  which  I 
had  seen  her  in  her  last  illness ;  and  after  trying  to  open 
it,  and  peeping  through  the  keyhole,  from  whence  I  could 
just  see  a  glimpse  of  the  crimson  curtains,  I  used  to  sit 
down  on  the  stool  before  the  door,  and  play  with  my 
doll,  and  sometimes  sing  to  it  mamma's  pretty  song  of 
"Balow  my  babe;"  imitating  as  well  as  I  could  the 
weak  voice  in  which  she  used  to  sing  it  to  me.  My 
mamma  had  a  very  sweet  voice.  I  remember  now  the 
gentle  tone  in  which  she  used  to  say  my  prattle  did  not 
disturb  her. 

When  I  was  dressed  in  my  new  frock,  I  wished  poor 
mamma  was  alive  to  see  how  fine  I  was  on  papa's 
wedding-day,  and  I  ran  to  my  favourite  station  at  her 
bedroom  door.  There  I  sat  thinking  of  my  mamma,  and 


44  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

trying  to  remember  exactly  how  she  used  to  look  ;  because 
I  foolishly  imagined  that  Miss  Saville  was  to  be  changed 
into  something  like  my  own  mother,  whose  pale  and 
delicate  appearance  in  her  last  illness  was  all  that  I  re- 
tained of  her  remembrance. 

When  my  father  returned  home  with  his  bride,  he 
walked  upstairs  to  look  for  me,  and  my  new  mamma 
followed  him.  They  found  me  at  my  mother's  door, 
earnestly  looking  through  the  keyhole.  I  was  thinking 
so  intently  on  my  mother,  that  when  my  father  said, 
"  Here  is  your  new  mamma,  my  Elinor,"  I  turned  round 
and  began  to  cry,  for  no  other  reason  than  because  she 
had  a  very  high  colour,  and  I  remembered  my  mamma 
was  very  pale ;  she  had  bright  black  eyes,  my  mother's 
were  mild  blue  eyes ;  and  that  instead  of  the  wrapping 
gown  and  close  cap  in  which  I  remembered  my  mamma, 
she  was  dressed  in  all  her  bridal  decorations. 

I  said,  "  Miss  Saville  shall  not  be  my  mamma,"  and 
I  cried  till  I  was  sent  away  in  disgrace. 

Every  time  I  saw  her  for  several  days,  the  same  notion 
came  into  my  head  that  she  was  not  a  bit  more  like 
mamma  than  when  she  was  Miss  Saville.  My  father  was 
very  angry  when  he  saw  how  shy  I  continued  to  look  at 
her;  but  she  always  said,  "Never  mind!  Elinor  and 
I  shall  soon  be  better  friends." 

One  day,  when  I  was  very  naughty  indeed,  for  I  would 
not  speak  one  word  to  either  of  them,  my  papa  took  his 
hat  and  walked  out,  quite  in  a  passion.  When  he  was 
gone,  I  looked  up  at  my  new  mamma,  expecting  to  see 
her  very  angry  too ;  but  she  was  smiling  and  looking  very 
good-naturedly  upon  me;  and  she  said,  "Now  we  are 
alone  together,  my  pretty  little  daughter,  let  us  forget 
papa  is  angry  with  us,  and  tell  me  why  you  were  peep- 
ing through  that  door  the  day  your  papa  brought  me 
home,  and  you  cried  so  at  the  sight  of  me."  "  Because 
mamma  used  to  be  there,"  I  replied.  When  she  heard 
me  say  this,  she  fell  a-crying  very  sadly  indeed ;  and  I 
was  so  very  sorry  to  hear  her  cry  so,  that  I  forgot  I  did 


THE  FATHER'S  WEDDING-DAY.  45 

not  love  her,  and  I  went  up  to  her  and  said,  "  Don't  cry, 
t  won't  be  naughty  any  more,  I  won't  peep  through  the 
door  any  more," 

Then  she  said  I  had  a  little  kind  heart,  and  I  should 
not  have  any  occasion,  for  she  would  take  me  into  the 
room  herself ;  and  she  rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  the  key 
of  that  room  to  be  brought  to  her ;  and  the  housekeeper 
brought  it,  and  tried  to  persuade  her  not  to  go.  But  she 
said,  "  I  must  have  my  own  way  in  this ;"  and  she  carried 
me  in  her  arms  into  my  mother's  room. 

Oh,  I  was  so  pleased  to  be  taken  into  mamma's  room. 
I  pointed  out  to  her  all  the  things  that  I  remembered  to 
have  belonged  to  mamma,  and  she  encouraged  me  to  tell 
her  all  the  little  incidents  which  had  dwelt  on  my  memory 
concerning  her.  She  told  me  that  she  went  to  school 
with  mamma  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  and  that  I  should 
come  into  this  room  with  her  every  day  when  papa  was 
gone  out,  and  she  would  tell  me  stories  of  mamma  when 
she  was  a  little  girl  no  bigger  than  inc. 

When  my  father  came  home  we  were  walking  in  a 
garden  at  the  back  of  our  house,  and  I  was  showing  her 
mamma's  geraniums,  and  telling  her  what  pretty  flowers 
they  had  when  mamma  was  alive. 

My  father  was  astonished ;  and  he  said,  "  Is  this  the 
sullen  Elinor  ?  what  has  worked  this  miracle  ?"  "  Ask 
no  questions,"  she  replied,  "  or  you  will  disturb  our  new- 
born friendship.  Elinor  has  promised  to  love  me,  and 
she  says,  too,  that  she  will  call  me  'mamma.'''  "Yes, 
I  will, — mamma,  mamma,  mamma,"  I  replied,  and  hung 
about  her  with  the  greatest  fondness. 

After  this  she  used  to  pass  great  part  of  the  mornings 
with  me  in  my  mother's  room,  which  was  now  made  the 
repository  of  all  my  playthings,  and  also  my  schoolroom. 
Here  my  new  mamma  taught  me  to  read.  I  was  a  sad 
little  dunce,  and  scarcely  knew  my  letters.  My  own 
mamma  had  often  said,  when  she  got  better  she  would 
hear  me  read  every  day,  but  as  she  never  got  better,  ifr 
was  not  her  fault.  I  now  began  to  learn  very  fast,  for 


46  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

when  I  said  my  lesson  well,  I  was  always  rewarded  with 
some  pretty  story  of  my  mother's  childhood ;  and  these 
stories  generally  contained  some  little  hints  that  were 
instructive  to  me,  and  which  I  greatly  stood  in  want  of; 
for,  between  improper  indulgence  and  neglect,  I  had  many 
faulty  ways. 

In  this  kind  manner  my  mother-in-law  has  instructed 
and  improved  me,  and  I  love  her  because  she  was  my 
mother's  friend  when  they  were  young.  She  has  been 
my  only  instructress,  for  I  never  went  to  school  till  I 
came  here.  She  would  have  continued  to  teach  me,  but 
she  has  not  time,  for  she  has  a  little  baby  of  her  own 
now,  and  that  is  the  reason  I  came  to  school. 


MARGARET   GREEK 

MY  father  has  been  dead  nearly  three  years.  Soon  after 
his  death,  my  mother  being  left  in  reduced  circumstances, 
she  was  induced  to  accept  the  offer  of  Mrs.  Beresford,  an 
elderly  lady  of  large  fortune,  to  live  in  her  house  as  her 
companion  and  the  superintendent  of  her  family.  This 
lady  was  my  godmother,  and  as  I  was  my  mother's  only 
child,  she  very  kindly  permitted  her  to  have  me  with  her. 

Mrs.  Beresford  lived  in  a  large  old  family  mansion ; 
she  kept  no  company,  and  never  moved  except  from  the 
breakfast-parlour  to  the  eating-room,  and  from  thence  to 
the  drawing-room  to  tea. 

Every  morning  when  she  first  saw  me,  she  used  to 
nod  her  head  very  kindly,  and  say,  "How  do  you  do, 
little  Margaret  1"  But  I  do  not  recollect  she  ever  spoke 
to  me  during  the  remainder  of  the  day :  except,  indeed, 
after  I  had  read  the  psalms  and  the  chapters,  which  was 
my  daily  task ;  then  she  used  constantly  to  observe  that 
I  improved  in  my  reading,  and  frequently  added,  "  I 
never  heard  a  child  read  so  distinctly." 


THE  YOUNG  MAHOMETAN.  47 

She  had  been  remarkably  fond  of  needlework,  and  her 
conversation  with  my  mother  was  generally  the  history 
of  some  pieces  of  work  she  had  formerly  done ;  the  dates 
when  they  were  begun,  and  when  finished ;  what  had 
retarded  their  progress,  and  what  had  hastened  their 
completion.  If  occasionally  any  other  events  were  spoken 
of,  she  had  no  other  chronology  to  reckon  by,  than  in  the 
recollection  of  what  carpet,  what  sofa-cover,  what  set  of 
chairs,  were  in  the  frame  at  that  time. 

I  believe  my  mother  is  not  particularly  fond  of  needle- 
work ;  for  in  my  father's  lifetime  I  never  saw  her  amuse 
herself  in  this  way;  yet,  to  oblige  her  kind  patroness, 
she  undertook  to  finish  a  large  carpet  which  the  old  lady 
had  just  begun  when  her  eyesight  failed  her.  All  day 
long  my  mother  used  to  sit  at  the  frame,  talking  of  the 
shades  of  the  worsted,  and  the  beauty  of  the  colours — 
Mrs.  Beresford  seated  in  a  chair  near  her,  and,  though 
her  eyes  were  so  dim  she  could  hardly  distinguish  one 
colour  from  another,  watching  through  her  spectacles 
the  progress  of  the  work. 

When  my  daily  portion  of  reading  was  over,  I  had  a 
taste  of  needlework,  which  generally  lasted  half  an  hour. 
I  was  not  allowed  to  pass  more  time  in  reading  or  work, 
because  my  eyes  were  very  weak,  for  which  reason  I  was 
always  set  to  read  in  the  large-print  family  Bible.  I 
was  very  fond  of  reading ;  and  when  I  could,  unobserved, 
steal  a  few  minutes  as  they  were  intent  on  their  work,  I 
used  to  delight  to  read  in  the  historical  part  of  the  Bible; 
but  this,  because  of  my  eyes,  was  a  forbidden  pleasure ; 
and  the  Bible  never  being  removed  out  of  the  room,  it 
was  only  for  a  short  time  together  that  I  dared  softly  to 
lift  up  the  leaves  and  peep  into  it. 

As  I  was  permitted  to  walk  in  the  garden,  or  wander 
about  the  house  whenever  I  pleased,  I  used  to  leave  the 
parlour  for  hours  together,  and  make  out  my  own  solitary 
amusement  as  well  as  I  could.  My  first  visit  was  always 
to  a  very  large  hall,  which,  from  being  paved  with  marble, 
was  called  the  marble  hall.  In  this  hall,  while  Mrs. 


48  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

Beresford's  husband  was  living,  the  tenants  used  to  be 
feasted  at  Christmas. 

The  heads  of  the  twelve  Caesars  were  hung  round  the 
hall.  Every  day  I  mounted  on  the  chairs  to  look  at 
them,  and  to  read  the  inscriptions  underneath,  till  I 
became  perfectly  familiar  with  their  names  and  features. 

Hogarth's  prints  were  below  the  Caesars  :  I  was  veiy 
fond  of  looking  at  them,  and  endeavouring  to  make  out 
their  meaning. 

An  old  broken  battledore  and  some  shuttlecocks,  with 
most  of  the  feathers  missing,  were  on  a  marble  slab  in 
one  corner  of  the  hall,  which  constantly  reminded  me 
that  there  had  once  been  younger  inhabitants  here  than 
the  old  lady  and  her  gray-headed  servants.  In  another 
corner  stood  a  marble  figure  of  a  satyr ;  every  day  I  laid 
my  hand  on  his  shoulder  to  feel  how  cold  he  was. 

This  hall  opened  into  a  room  full  of  family  portraits. 
They  were  all  in  the  dresses  of  former  times  :  some  were 
old  men  and  women,  and  some  were  children.  I  used 
to  long  to  have  a  fairy's  power  to  call  the  children  down 
from  their  frames  to  play  with  me.  One  little  girl  in 
particular,  who  hung  by  the  side  of  a  glass  door  which 
opened  into  the  garden,  I  often  invited  to  walk  there 
with  me,  but  she  still  kept  her  station — one  arm  round 
a  little  lamb's  neck,  and  in  her  hand  a  large  bunch  of 
roses.  From  this  room  I  usually  proceeded  to  the  garden. 

When  I  was  weary  of  the  garden  I  wandered  over  the 
rest  of  the  house.  The  best  suite  of  rooms  I  never  saw 
by  any  other  light  than  what  glimmered  through  the  tops 
of  the  window-shutters,  which,  however,  served  to  show 
the  carved  chimney-pieces,  and  the  curious  old  ornaments 
about  the  rooms ;  but  the  worked  furniture  and  carpets 
of  which  I  heard  such  constant  praises  I  could  have  but 
an  imperfect  sight  of,  peeping  under  the  covers  which 
were  kept  over  them,  by  the  dim  light ;  for  I  constantly 
lifted  up  a  corner  of  the  envious  cloth  that  hid  these 
highly-praised  rarities  from  my  view. 

The  bedrooms  were  also  regularly  explored  by  me,  as 


THE  YOUNG  MAHOMETAN.  49 

well  to  admire  the  antique  furniture,  as  for  the  sake  of 
contemplating  the  tapestry  hangings,  which  were  full  of 
Bible  history.  The  subject  of  the  one  which  chiefly 
attracted  my  attention  was  Hagar  and  her  son  Ishmael. 
Every  day  I  admired  the  beauty  of  the  youth,  and  pitied 
the  forlorn  state  of  him  and  his  mother  in  the  wilderness. 
At  the  end  of  the  gallery  into  which  these  tapestry  rooms 
opened,  was  one  door  which,  having  often  in  vain 
attempted  to  open,  I  concluded  to  be  locked ;  and  find- 
ing myself  shut  out,  I  was  very  desirous  of  seeing  what 
it  contained ;  and  though  still  foiled  in  the  attempt,  I 
every  day  endeavoured  to  turn  the  lock,  which — whether 
by  constantly  trying  I  loosened,  being  probably  a  very  old 
one,  or  that  the  door  was  not  locked  but  fastened  tight 
by  time,  I  know  not — to  my  great  joy,  as  I  was  one  day 
trying  the  lock  as  usual,  it  gave  way,  and  I  found  myself 
in  this  so-long-desired  room. 

It  proved  to  be  a  very  large  library.  This  was  indeed 
a  precious  discovery.  I  looked  round  on  the  books  with 
the  greatest  delight.  I  thought  I  would  read  them  every 
one.  I  now  forsook  all  my  favourite  haunts,  and  passed 
all  my  time  here.  I  took  down  first  one  book,  then 
another. 

If  you  never  spent  whole  mornings  alone  in  a  large 
library,  you  cannot  conceive  the  pleasure  of  taking  down 
books  in  the  constant  hope  of  finding  an  entertaining 
book  among  them ;  yet,  after  many  days,  meeting  with 
nothing  but  disappointment,  it  becomes  less  pleasant. 
All  the  books  within  my  reach  were  folios  of  the  gravest 
cast.  I  could  understand  very  little  that  I  read  in  them, 
and  the  old  dark  print  and  the  length  of  the  lines  made 
my  eyes  ache. 

When  I  had  almost  resolved  to  give  up  the  search  as 
fruitless,  I  perceived  a  volume  lying  in  an  obscure  corner 
of  the  room.  I  opened  it.  It  was  a  charming  print ; 
the  letters  were  almost  as  large  as  the  type  of  the  family 
Bible.  In  the  first  page  I  looked  into  I  saw  the  name 
of  my  favourite  Ishmael,  whose  face  I  knew  so  well  from 

£ 


50  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

the  tapestry,  and  whose  history  I  had  often  read  in  the 
Bible. 

I  sat  myself  down  to  read  this  book  with  the  greatest 
eagerness.  The  title  of  it  was  Mahometanism  Ex- 
plained. It  was  a  very  improper  book,  for  it  contained 
a  false  history  of  Abraham  and  his  descendants. 

I  shall  be  quite  ashamed  to  tell  you  the  strange  effect 
it  had  on  me.  I  know  it  was  very  wrong  to  read  any 
book  without  permission  to  do  so.  If  my  time  were  to 
come  over  again,  I  would  go  and  tell  my  mamma  that 
there  was  a  library  in  the  house,  and  ask  her  to  permit 
me  to  read  a  little  while  every  day  in  some  book  that 
she  might  think  proper  to  select  for  me.  But  unfortun- 
ately I  did  not  then  recollect  that  I  ought  to  do  this : 
the  reason  of  my  strange  forgetfulness  might  be  that 
my  mother,  following  the  example  of  her  patroness,  had 
almost  wholly  discontinued  talking  to  me.  I  scarcely 
ever  heard  a  word  addressed  to  me  from  morning  to 
night  If  it  were  not  for  the  old  servants  saying,  "  Good 
morning  to  you,  Miss  Margaret !"  as  they  passed  me  in 
the. long  passages,  I  should  have  been  the  greatest  part 
of  the  day  in  as  perfect  a  solitude  as  Robinson  Crusoe. 
It  must  have  been  because  I  was  never  spoken  to  at  all 
that  I  forgot  what  was  right  and  what  was  wrong,  for  I 
do  not  believe  that  I  ever  remembered  I  was  doing 
wrong  all  the  time  I  was  reading  in  the  library.  A  great 
many  of  the  leaves  in  Mahometanism  Explained  were 
torn  out,  but  enough  remained  to  make  me  imagine  that 
Ishmael  was  the  true  son  of  Abraham ;  I  read  here  that 
the  true  descendants  of  Abraham  were  known  by  a  light 
which  streamed  from  the  middle  of  their  foreheads.  It 
said  that  Ishmael's  father  and  mother  first  saw  this  light 
streaming  from  his  forehead  as  he  was  lying  asleep  in 
the  cradle.  I  was  very  sorry  so  many  of  the  leaves  were 
torn  out,  for  it  was  as  entertaining  as  a  fairy  tale.  I 
used  to  read  the  history  of  Ishmael,  and  then  go  and 
look  at  him  in  the  tapestry,  and  then  read  his  history 
again.  When  I  had  almost  learned  the  history  of  Ishmael 


THE  YOUNG  MAHOMETAN.  51 

by  heart,  I  read  the  rest  of  the  book,  and  then  I  came  to 
the  history  of  Mahomet,  who  was  there  said  to  be  the 
last  descendant  of  Abraham. 

If  Ishmael  had  engaged  so  much  of  my  thoughts,  how 
much  more  so  must  Mahomet  ?  His  history  was  full  of 
nothing  but  wonders  from  the  beginning  to  the  end. 
The  book  said  that  those  who  believed  all  the  wonder- 
ful stories  which  were  related  of  Mahomet  were  called 
Mahometans,  and  True  Believers : — I  concluded  that  I 
must  be  a  Mahometan,  for  I  believed  every  word  I  read. 

At  length  I  met  with  something  which  I  also  believed, 
though  I  trembled  as  I  read  it.  This  was,  that  after  we 
are  dead  we  are  to  pass  over  a  narrow  bridge,  which 
crosses  a  bottomless  gulf.  The  bridge  was  described  to 
be  no  wider  than  a  silken  thread ;  and  it  is  said  that 
all  who  were  not  Mahometans  would  slip  on  one  side  of 
this  bridge,  and  drop  into  the  tremendous  gulf  that  had 
no  bottom.  I  considered  myself  as  a  Mahometan,  yet 
I  was  perfectly  giddy  whenever  I  thought  of  passing  over 
this  bridge. 

One  day,  seeing  the  old  lady  totter  across  the  room, 
a  sudden  terror  seized  me,  for  I  thought  how  would  she 
ever  be  able  to  get  over  the  bridge  1  Then  too  it  was 
that  I  first  recollected  that  my  mother  would  also  be  in 
imminent  danger ;  for  I  imagined  she  had  never  heard 
the  name  of  Mahomet,  because  I  foolishly  conjectured 
this  book  had  been  locked  up  for  ages  in  the  library, 
and  was  utterly  unknown  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

All  my  desire  was  now  to  tell  them  the  discovery  I 
had  made  ;  for  I  thought,  when  they  knew  of  the  exist- 
ence of  Mahometanism  Explained,  they  would  read  it, 
and  become  Mahometans,  to  ensure  themselves  a  safe 
passage  over  the  silken  bridge.  But  it  wanted  more 
courage  than  I  possessed  to  break  the  matter  to  my 
intended  converts ;  I  must  acknowledge  that  I  had  been 
reading  without  leave  ;  and  the  habit  of  never  speaking, 
or  being  spoken  to,  considerably  increased  the  difficulty. 

My  anxiety  on  this  subject  threw  me  into  a  fever.     I 


52  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

was  so  ill  that  my  mother  thought  it  necessary  to  sleep 
in  the  same  room  with  me.  In  the  middle  of  the  night 
I  could  not  resist  the  strong  desire  I  felt  to  tell  her  what 
preyed  so  much  on  my  mind. 

I  awoke  her  out  of  a  sound  sleep,  and  begged  she 
would  be  so  kind  as  to  be  a  Mahometan.  She  was  very 
much  alarmed,  for  she  thought  I  was  delirious,  which  I 
believe  I  was ;  for  I  tried  to  explain  the  reason  of  my 
request,  but  it  was  in  such  an  incoherent  manner  that 
she  could  not  at  all  comprehend  what  I  was  talking 
about. 

The  next  day  a  physician  was  sent  for,  and  he  dis- 
covered, by  several  questions  that  he  put  to  me,  that  I 
had  read  myself  into  a  fever.  He  gave  me  medicines, 
and  ordered  me  to  be  kept  very  quiet,  and  said  he  hoped 
in  a  few  days  I  should  be  very  well ;  but  as  it  was 
a  new  case  to  him,  he  never  having  attended  a  little 
Mahometan  before,  if  any  lowness  continued  after  he  had 
removed  the  fever,  he  would,  with  my  mother's  permis- 
sion, take  me  home  with  him  to  study  this  extraordinary 
case  at  his  leisure ;  and  added,  that  he  could  then  hold 
a  consultation  with  his  wife,  who  was  often  very  useful 
to  him  in  prescribing  remedies  for  the  maladies  of  his 
younger  patients. 

In  a  few  days  he  fetched  me  away.  His  wife  was  in 
the  carriage  with  him.  Having  heard  what  he  said 
about  her  prescriptions,  I  expected,  between  the  doctor 
and  his  lady,  to  undergo  a  severe  course  of  medicine, 
especially  as  I  heard  him  very  formally  ask  her  advice 
what  was  good  for  a  Mahometan  fever,  the  moment  after 
he  had  handed  me  into  the  carriage.  She  studied  a 
little  while,  and  then  she  said,  a  ride  to  Harlow  Fair 
would  not  be  amiss.  He  said  he  was  entirely  of  her 
opinion,  because  it  suited  him  to  go  there  to  buy  a  horse. 

During  the  ride  they  entered  into  conversation  with 
me,  and  in  answer  to  their  questions,  I  was  relating  to 
them  the  solitary  manner  in  which  I  had  passed  my 
time ;  how  I  found  out  the  library,  and  what  I  had  read 


THE  YOUNG  MAHOMETAN.  53 

in  the  fatal  book  which  had  so  heated  my  imagination 
— when  we  arrived  at  the  fair ;  and  Ishmael,  Mahomet, 
and  the  narrow  bridge  vanished  out  of  my  head  in  an 
instant. 

Oh !  what  a  cheerful  sight  it  was  to  me  to  see  so 
many  happy  faces  assembled  together,  walking  up  and 
down  between  the  rows  of  booths  that  were  full  of  showy 
things ;  ribands,  laces,  toys,  cakes,  and  sweetmeats ! 
While  the  doctor  was  gone  to  buy  his  horse,  his  kind 
lady  let  me  stand  as  long  as  I  pleased  at  the  booths, 
and  gave  me  many  things  which  she  saw  I  particularly 
admired.  My  needle-case,  my  pincushion,  indeed,  my 
work-basket  and  all  its  contents,  are  presents  which  she 
purchased  for  me  at  this  fair.  After  we  returned  home 
she  played  with  me  all  the  evening  at  a  geographical 
game,  which  she  also  bought  for  me  at  this  cheerful  fair. 

The  next  day  she  invited  some  young  ladies  of  my 
own  age  to  spend  the  day  with  me.  She  had  a  swing 
put  up  in  the  garden  for  us,  and  a  room  cleared  of  the 
furniture,  that  we  might  play  at  blindman's  buff.  One 
of  the  liveliest  of  the  girls,  who  had  taken  on  herself  the 
direction  of  our  sports,  she  kept  to  be  my  companion  all 
the  time  I  stayed  with  her,  and  every  day  contrived  some 
new  amusement  for  us. 

Yet  this  good  lady  did  not  suffer  all  my  time  to  pass 
in  mirth  and  gaiety.  Before  I  went  home  she  explained 
to  me  very  seriously  the  error  into  which  I  had  fallen. 
I  found  that  so  far  from  Mahometanism  Explained  being 
a  book  concealed  only  in  this  library,  it  was  well  known 
to  every  person  of  the  least  information. 

The  Turks,  she  told  me,  were  Mahometans,  and  that, 
if  the  leaves  of  my  favouiite  book  had  not  been  torn  out, 
I  should  have  read  that  the  author  of  it  did  not  mean  to 
give  the  fabulous  stories  here  related  as  true,  but  only 
wrote  it  as  giving  a  history  of  what  the  Turks,  who  are 
a  very  ignorant  people,  believe  concerning  the  impostor 
Mahomet,  who  feigned  himself  to  be  a  descendant  of 
Ishmael.  By  the  good  offices  of  the  physician  and  his 


54  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

lady,  I  was  carried  home  at  the  end  of  a  month,  perfectly 
cured  of  the  error  into  which  I  had  fallen,  and  very  much 
ashamed  of  having  believed  so  many  absurdities. 


EMILY  BAETOK 

WHEN  I  was  a  very  young  child,  I  remember  residing 

with  an  uncle  and  aunt  who  live  in shire.  I  think 

I  remained  there  near  a  twelvemonth.  I  am  ignorant  of 
the  cause  of  my  being  so  long  left  there  by  my  parents, 
who,  though  they  were  remarkably  fond  of  me,  never  came 
to  see  me  during  all  that  time.  As  I  did  not  know  I 
should  ever  have  occasion  to  relate  the  occurrences  of  my 
life,  I  never  thought  of  inquiring  the  reason. 

I  am  just  able  to  recollect  that  when  I  first  went  there 
I  thought  it  was  a  fine  thing  to  live  in  the  country,  and 
play  with  my  little  cousins  in  the  garden  all  day  long ; 
and  I  also  recollect  that  I  soon  found  that  it  was  a  very 
dull  thing  to  live  in  the  country  with  little  cousins  who 
have  a  papa  and  mamma  in  the  house,  while  my  own 
dear  papa  and  mamma  were  in  London,  many  miles  away. 

I  have  heard  my  papa  observe,  girls  who  are  not  well 
managed  are  a  most  quarrelsome  race  of  little  people. 
My  cousins  very  often  quarrelled  with  me,  and  then  they 
always  said,  "  I  will  go  and  tell  my  mamma,  cousin 
Emily;"  and  then  I  used  to  be  very  disconsolate,  because 
I  had  no  mamma  to  complain  to  of  my  grievances. 

My  aunt  always  took  Sophia's  part  because  she  was 
so  young ;  and  she  never  suffered  me  to  oppose  Mary  or 
Elizabeth,  because  they  were  older  than  me. 

The  playthings  were  all  the  property  of  one  or  other 
of  my  cousins.  The  large  dolls  belonged  to  Mary  or 
Elizabeth,  and  the  pretty  little  wax  dolls  were  dressed  on 
purpose  for  Sophia,  who  always  began  to  cry  the  instant 
I  touched  them.  I  had  nothing  that  I  could  call  my 


VISIT  TO  THE  COUSINS.  55 

own  but  one  pretty  book  of  stories ;  and  one  day,  as 
Sophia  was  endeavouring  to  take  it  from  me,  and  I  was 
trying  to  keep  it,  it  was  all  torn  to  pieces ;  and  my  aunt 
would  not  be  angry  with  her.  She  only  said,  Sophia  was 
a  little  baby  and  did  not  know  any  better.  My  uncle 
promised  to  buy  me  another  book,  but  he  never  remem- 
bered it.  Very  often  when  he  came  home  in  the  evening 
he  used  to  say,  "  I  wonder  what  I  have  got  in  my 
pocket;"  and  then  they  all  crowded  round  him,  and  I 
used  to  creep  towards  him,  and  think,  maybe  it  is  my 
book  that  my  uncle  has  got  in  his  pocket.  But,  no ; 
nothing  ever  came  out  for  me.  Yet  the  first  sight  of  a 
plaything,  even  if  it  be  not  one's  own,  is  always  a  cheer- 
ful thing,  and  a  new  toy  would  put  them  in  a  good 
humour  for  a  while,  and  they  would  say,  "  Here,  Emily, 
look  what  I  have  got.  You  may  take  it  in  your  own 
hand  and  look  at  it."  But  the  pleasure  of  examining  it 
was  sure  to  be  stopped  in  a  short  time  by  the  old  story 
of  "  Give  that  to  me  again  ;  you  know  that  is  mine." 
Nobody  could  help,  I  think,  being  a  little  out  of  humour 
if  they  were  always  served  so ;  but  if  I  showed  any  signs 
of  discontent,  my  aunt  always  told  my  uncle  I  was  a  little 
peevish  fretful  thing,  and  gave  her  more  trouble  than  all 
her  own  children  put  together.  My  aunt  would  often  say, 
•what  a  happy  thing  it  was  to  have  such  affectionate  child- 
ren as  hers  were.  She  was  always  praising  my  cousins 
because  they  were  affectionate ;  that  was  sure  to  be  her 
word.  She  said  I  had  not  one  atom  of  affection  in  my 
disposition,  for  that  no  kindness  ever  made  the  least 
impression  on  me.  And  she  would  say  all  this  with 
Sophia  seated  on  her  lap,  and  the  two  eldest  perhaps 
hanging  round  their  papa,  while  I  was  so  dull  to  see  them 
taken  so  much  notice  of,  and  so  sorry  that  I  was  not 
affectionate,  that  I  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  myself. 
Then  there  was  another  complaint  against  me  ;  that 
I  was  so  shy  before  strangers.  Whenever  any  strangers 
spoke  to  me,  before  I  had  time  to  think  what  answer  I 
should  give,  Mary  or  Elizabeth  would  say,  "  Emily  is  so 


56  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

shy,  she  will  never  speak."  Then  I,  thinking  I  was 
very  shy,  would  creep  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  be 
ashamed  to  look  up  while  the  company  stayed. 

Though  I  often  thought  of  my  papa  and  mamma,  by 
degrees  the  remembrance  of  their  persons  faded  out  of 
my  mind.  When  I  tried  to  think  how  they  used  to  look, 
the  faces  of  my  cousins'  papa  and  mamma  only  came  into 
my  mind. 

One  morning  my  uncle  and  aunt  went  abroad  before 
breakfast,  and  took  my  cousins  with  them.  They  very 
often  went  out  for  whole  days  together  and  left  me  at 
home.  Sometimes  they  said  it  was  because  they  could 
not  take  so  many  children ;  and  sometimes  they  said  it 
was  because  I  was  so  shy,  it  was  no  amusement  to  me  to 
go  abroad. 

That  morning  I  was  very  solitary  indeed,  for  they  had 
even  taken  the  dog  Sancho  with  them,  and  I  was  very 
fond  of  him.  I  went  all  about  the  house  and  garden  to 
look  for  him.  Nobody  could  tell  me  where  Sancho  was, 
and  then  I  went  into  the  front  court  and  called,  "  Sancho, 
Sancho."  An  old  man  that  worked  in  the  garden  was 
there,  and  he  said  Sancho  was  gone  with  his  master. 
Oh  !  how  sorry  I  was ;  I  began  to  cry,  for  Sancho  and  I 
used  to  amuse  ourselves  for  hours  together  when  every- 
body was  gone  out.  I  cried  till  I  heard  the  mail-coach- 
man's horn,  and  then  I  ran  to  the  gate  to  see  the  mail- 
coach  go  past.  It  stopped  before  our  gate,  and  a 
gentleman  got  out,  and  the  moment  he  saw  me  he  took 
me  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  me,  and  said  I  was  Emily 
Barton,  and  asked  me  why  the  tears  were  on  my  little 
pale  cheeks ;  and  I  told  him  the  cause  of  my  distress. 
The  old  man  asked  him  to  walk  into  the  house,  and  was 
going  to  call  one  of  the  servants ;  but  the  gentleman 
would  not  let  him,  and  he  said,  "  Go  on  with  your  work, 
I  want  to  talk  to  this  little  girl  before  I  go  into  the 
house."  Then  he  sat  down  on  a  bench  which  was  in  the 
court,  and  asked  me  many  questions ;  and  I  told  him  all 
iny  little  troubles,  for  he  was  such  a  good-natured  looking 


VISIT  TO  THE  COUSINS.  57 

gentleman  that  I  prattled  very  freely  to  him.  I  told  him 
all  I  have  told  you,  and  more,  for  the  unkind  treatment 
I  met  with  was  more  fresh  in  my  mind  than  it  is  now. 
Then  he  called  to  the  old  man,  and  desired  him  to  fetch 
a  post-chaise,  and  gave  him  money  that  he  should  make 
haste,  and  I  never  saw  the  old  man  walk  so  fast  before. 
When  he  had  been  gone  a  little  while,  the  gentleman 
said,  "Will  you  walk  with  me  down  the  road  to  meet 
the  chaise,  and  you  shall  ride  in  it  a  little  way  along 
with  me."  I  had  nothing  on,  not  even  my  old  straw 
bonnet  that  I  used  to  wear  in  the  garden ;  but  I  did 
not  mind  that,  and  I  ran  by  his  side  a  good  way,  till  we 
met  the  chaise,  and  the  old  man  riding  with  the  driver. 
The  gentleman  said,  "Get  down  and  open  the  door," 
and  then  he  lifted  me  in.  The  old  man  looked  in  a  sad 
fright,  and  said  "  Oh !  sir,  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to 
take  the  child  away  1"  •  The  gentleman  threw  out  a  small 
card,  and  bid  him  give  that  to  his  master,  and  calling  to 
the  post-boy  to  drive  on,  we  lost  sight  of  the  old  man  in 
a  minute. 

The  gentleman  laughed  very  much  and  said,  "We 
have  frightened  the  old  man,  he  thinks  I  am  going  to  run 
away  with  you;"  and  I  laughed,  and  thought  it  a  very 
good  joke,  and  he  said,  "  So  you  tell  me  you  are  very 
shy;"  and  I  replied,  "Yes,  sir,  I  am,  before  strangers." 
He  said,  "  So  I  perceive  you  are,"  and  then  he  laughed 
again,  and  I  laughed,  though  I  did  not  know  why.  We 
had  such  a  merry  ride,  laughing  all  the  way  at  one  thing 
or  another,  till  we  came  to  a  town  where  the  chaise 
stopped,  and  he  ordered  some  breakfast.  When  I  got 
out  I  began  to  shiver  a  little,  for  it  was  the  latter  end 
of  autumn ;  the  leaves  were  falling  oif  the  trees,  and  the 
air  blew  very  cold.  Then  he  desired  the  waiter  to  go 
and  order  a  straw  hat  and  a  little  warm  coat  for  me  ; 
and  when  the  milliner  came,  he  told  her  he  had  stolen  a 
little  heiress,  and  we  were  going  to  Gretna  Green  in  such 
a  hurry  that  the  young  lady  had  no  time  to  put  on  her 
bonnet  before  she  came  out.  The  milliner  said  I  was  a 


58  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

pretty  little  heiress,  and  she  wished  us  a  pleasant  jotuaey. 
When  we  had  breakfasted,  and  I  was  equipped  in  my 
new  coat  and  bonnet,  I  jumped  into  the  chaise  again  as 
warm  and  as  lively  as  a  little  bird. 

When  it  grew  dark  we  entered  a  large  city;  the  chaise 
began  to  roll  over  the  stones,  and  I  saw  the  lamps  ranged 
along  London  streets. 

Though  we  had  breakfasted  and  dined  upon  the  road, 
and  I  had  got  out  of  one  chaise  into  another  many  times, 
and  was  now  riding  on  in  the  dark,  I  never  once  con- 
sidered where  I  was,  or  where  I  was  going  to.  I  put 
my  head  out  of  the  chaise  window,  and  admired  those 
beautiful  lights.  I  was  sorry  when  the  chaise  stopped, 
and  I  could  no  longer  look  at  the  brilliant  rows  of  lighted 
lamps. 

Taken  away  by  a  stranger  under  a  pretence  of  a  short 
ride,  and  brought  quite  to  London,  do  you  not  expect 
some  perilous  end  of  this  adventure  ?  Ah  !  it  was  my 
papa  himself,  though  I  did  not  know  who  he  was  till 
after  he  had  put  me  into  my  mamma's  arms,  and  told 
her  how  he  had  run  away  with  his  own  little  daughter. 
"  It  is  your  papa,  my  dear,  that  has  brought  you  to  your 
own  home." — "  This  is  your  mamma,  my  love,"  they  both 
exclaimed  at  once.  Mamma  cried  for  joy  to  see  me,  and 
she  wept  again  when  she  heard  my  papa  tell  what  a 
neglected  child  I  had  been  at  my  uncle's.  This  he  had 
found  out,  he  said,  by  my  own  innocent  prattle,  and  that 
he  was  so  offended  with  his  brother,  my  uncle,  that  he 
would  not  enter  his  house.  And  then  he  said  what  a 
little,  happy,  good  child  I  had  been  all  the  way,  and  that 
when  he  found  I  did  not  know  him,  he  would  not  tell 
me  who  he  was,  for  the  sake  of  the  pleasant  surprise  it 
would  be  to  me.  It  was  a  surprise  and  a  happiness 
indeed,  after  living  with  unkind  relations,  all  at  once  to 
know  I  was  at  home  with  my  own  dear  papa  and  mamma. 

My  mamma  ordered  tea.  Whenever  I  happen  to  like 
my  tea  very  much,  I  always  think  of  the  delicious  cup  of 
tea  mamma  gave  us  after  our  journey.  I  think  I  see  the 


VISIT  TO  THE  COUSINS.  59 

urn  smoking  before  me  now,  and  papa  wheeling  the  sofa 
round,  that  I  might  sit  between  them  at  the  table. 

Mamma  called  me  Little  Runaway,  and  said  it  was 
very  well  it  was  only  papa.  I  told  her  how  we  frightened 
the  old  gardener,  and  opened  my  eyes  to  show  her  how 
he  stared,  and  how  my  papa  made  the  milliner  believe 
we  were  going  to  Gretna  Green.  Mamma  looked  grave, 
and  said  she  Avas  almost  frightened  to  find  I  had  been 
so  fearless;  but  I  promised  her  another  time  I  would 
not  go  into  a  post-chaise  with  a  gentleman  without  ask- 
ing him  who  he  was  :  and  then  she  laughed,  and  seemed 
very  well  satisfied. 

Mamma,  to  my  fancy,  looked  very  handsome.  She 
was  very  nicely  dressed,  quite  like  a  fine  lady.  I  held 
up  my  head,  and  felt  very  proud  that  I  had  such  a  papa 
and  mamma.  I  thought  to  myself,  "0  dear,  my  cousins' 
papa  and  mamma  are  not  to  be  compared  to  mine  !" 

Papa  said,  "What  makes  you  bridle  and  simper  so, 
Emily  1"  Then  I  told  him  all  that  was  in  my  mind. 
Papa  asked  if  I  did  not  think  him  as  pretty  as  I  did 
mamma.  I  could  not  say  much  for  his  beauty,  but  I 
told  him  he  was  a  much  finer  gentleman  than  my  uncle, 
and  that  I  liked  him  the  first  moment  I  saw  him,  because 
he  looked  so  good-natured.  He  said,  "Well,  then,  he 
must  be  content  with  that  half  praise ;  but  he  had 
always  thought  himself  very  handsome."  "0  dear!" 
said  I,  and  fell  a-laughing,  till  I  spilt  my  tea,  and 
mamma  called  me  a  little  awkward  girl. 

The  next  morning  my  papa  was  going  to  the  Bank  to 
receive  some  money,  and  he  took  mamma  and  me  with 
him,  that  I  might  have  a  ride  through  London  streets. 
Every  one  that  has  been  in  London  must  have  seen  the 
Bank,  and  therefore  you  may  imagine  what  an  effect  the 
fine  large  rooms,  and  the  bustle  and  confusion  of  people 
had  on  me,  who  was  grown  such  a  little  wondering  rustic 
that  the  crowded  streets  and  the  fine  shops  alone  kept  me 
in  continual  admiration. 

As  we  were  returning  home  down  Cheapside,  papa 


60  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

said,  "  Emily  shall  take  home  some  little  books.  Shall 
we  order  the  coachman  to  the  corner  of  St.  Paul's  Church- 
yard, or  shall  we  go  to  the  Juvenile  Library  in  Skinner 
Street  1"  Mamma  said  she  would  go  to  Skinner  Street, 
for  she  wanted  to  look  at  the  new  buildings  there. 
Papa  bought  me  seven  new  books,  and  the  lady  in  the 
shop  persuaded  him  to  take  more,  but  mamma  said 
that  was  quite  enough  at  present. 

We  went  home  by  Ludgate  Hill,  because  mamma 
wanted  to  buy  something  there ;  and  while  she  went 
into  a  shop,  papa  heard  me  read  in  one  of  my  new  books, 
and  said  he  was  glad  to  find  I  could  read  so  well,  for 
I  had  forgot  to  tell  him  my  aunt  used  to  hear  me  read 
every  day. 

My  papa  stopped  the  coach  opposite  to  St.  Dunstan's 
Church,  that  I  might  see  the  great  iron  figures  strike 
upon  the  bell,  to  give  notice  that  it  was  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  past  two.  We  waited  some  time  that  I  might  see 
this  sight,  but  just  at  the  moment  they  were  striking,  I 
happened  to  be  looking  at  a  toy-shop  that  was  on  the 
other  side  of  the  way,  and  unluckily  missed  it.  Papa 
said,  "  Never  mind ;  we  will  go  into  the  toy-shop,  and  I 
dare  say  we  shall  find  something  that  will  console  you 
for  your  disappointment."  "  Do,"  said  mamma,  "  for  I 
knew  Miss  Pearson,  who  keeps  this  shop,  at  Weymouth, 
when  I  was  a  little  girl,  not  much  older  than  Emily. 
Take  notice  of  her, — she  is  a  very  intelligent  old  lady." 
Mamma  made  herself  known  to  Miss  Pearson,  and 
showed  me  to  her,  but  I  did  not  much  mind  what  they 
said ;  no  more  did  papa — for  we  were  busy  among  the 
toys. 

A  large  wax-doll,  a  baby-house  completely  furnished, 
and  several  other  beautiful  toys,  were  bought  for  me. 
I  sat  and  looked  at  them  with  an  amazing  deal  of 
pleasure  as  we  rode  home — they  quite  filled  up  one  side 
of  the  coach. 

The  joy  I  discovered  at  possessing  things  I  could 
call  my  own,  and  the  frequent  repetition  of  the  words, 


VISIT  TO  THE  COUSINS.  61 

My  oion,  my  oivn,  gave  my  mamma  some  uneasiness. 
She  justly  feared  that  the  cold  treatment  I  had  experi- 
enced at  my  uncle's  had  made  me  selfish,  and  therefore 
she  invited  a  little  girl  to  spend  a  few  days  with  me,  to 
see,  as  she  has  since  told  me,  if  I  should  not  be  liable 
to  fall  into  the  same  error  from  which  I  had  suffered  so 
much  at  my  uncle's. 

As  my  mamma  had  feared,  so  the  event  proved ;  for 
I  quickly  adopted  my  cousins'  selfish  ideas,  and  gave  the 
young  lady  notice  that  they  were  my  own  playthings, 
and  she  must  not  amuse  herself  with  them  any  longer 
than  I  permitted  her.  Then  presently  I  took  occasion 
to  begin  a  little  quarrel  with  her,  and  said,  "  I  have  got 
a  mamma  now,  Miss  Frederica,  as  well  as  you,  and  I 
will  go  and  tell  her,  and  she  will  not  let  you  play  with 
my  doll  any  longer  than  I  please,  because  it  is  my  own 
doll."  And  I  very  well  remember  I  imitated,  as  nearly 
as  I  could,  the  haughty  tone  in  which  my  cousins  used 
to  speak  to  me. 

"  Oh,  fie  !  Emily,"  said  my  mamma ;  "  can  you  be 
the  little  girl  who  used  to  be  so  distressed  because  your 
cousins  would  not  let  you  play  with  their  dolls?  Do 
you  not  see  you  are  doing  the  very  same  unkind  thing 
to  your  playfellow  that  they  did  to  you  ?"  Then  I  saw 
as  plain  as  could  be  what  a  naughty  girl  I  was,  and  I 
promises!  not  to  do  so  any  more. 

A  lady  was  sitting  with  mamma,  and  mamma  said, 
"I  believe  I  must  pardon  you  this  once,  but  I  hope 
never  to  see  such  a  thing  again.  This  lady  is  Miss 
Frederica's  mamma,  and  I  am  quite  ashamed  that  she 
should  be  witness  to  your  inhospitality  to  her  daughter, 
particularly  as  she  was  so  kind  to  come  on  purpose  to 
invite  you  to  a  share  in  her  ou-n  private  box  at  the 
theatre  this  evening.  Her  carriage  is  waiting  at  the 
door  to  take  us,  but  how  can  we  accept  of  the  invitation 
after  what  has  happened  ?" 

The  lady  begged  it  might  all  be  forgotten ;  and 
mamma  consented  that  I  should  go,  and  she  said, 


62  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

"But  I  hope,  my  dear  Emily,  when  you  are  sitting 
in  the  playhouse,  you  will  remember  that  pleasures 
are  far  more  delightful  when  they  are  shared  among 
numbers.  If  the  whole  theatre  were  your  own,  and 
you  were  sitting  by  yourself  to  see  the  performance,  how 
dull  it  would  seem  to  what  you  will  find  it,  with  so 
many  happy  faces  around  us,  all  amused  with  the  same 
thing  !"  I  hardly  knew  what  my  mamma  meant,  for  I 
had  never  seen  a  play ;  but  when  I  got  there,  after  the 
curtain  drew  up,  I  looked  up  towards  the  galleries,  and 
down  into  the  pit,  and  into  all  the  boxes,  and  then  I 
knew  what  a  pretty  sight  it  was  to  see  a  number  of 
happy  faces.  I  was  very  well  convinced  that  it  would 
not  have  been  half  so  cheerful,  if  the  theatre  had  been 
my  own,  to  have  sat  there  by  myself.  From  that  time, 
whenever  I  felt  inclined  to  be  selfish,  I  used  to  remember 
the  theatre  where  the  mamma  of  the  young  lady  I  had 
been  so  rude  to  gave  me  a  seat  in  her  own  box.  There 
is  nothing  in  the  world  so  charming  as  going  to  a  play. 
All  the  way  there  I  was  as  dull  and  as  silent  as  I  used 

to  be  in shire,  because  I  was  so  sorry  mamma  had 

been  displeased  with  me.  Just  as  the  coach  stopped, 
Miss  Frederica  said,  "  Will  you  be  friends  with  me, 
Emily1?"  and  I  replied,  "Yes,  if  you  please,  Frederica;" 
and  we  went  hand-in-hand  together  into  the  house.  I 
did  not  speak  any  more  till  we  entered  the  box,  but  after 
that  I  was  as  lively  as  if  nothing  at  all  had  happened. 

I  shall  never  forget  how  delighted  I  was  at  the  first 
sight  of  the  house.  My  little  friend  and  I  were  placed 
together  in  the  front,  while  our  mammas  retired  to  the 
back  part  of  the  box  to  chat  by  themselves,  for  they  had 
been  so  kind  as  to  come  very  early,  that  I  might  look 
about  me  before  the  performance  began. 

Frederica  had  been  very  often  at  a  play.  She  was 
very  useful  in  telling  me  what  everything  was.  She 
maile  me  observe  how  the  common  people  were  coming 
bustling  down  the  benches  in  the  galleries,  as  if  they 
were  afraid  they  should  lose  their  places.  She  told  me 


VISIT  TO  THE  COUSINS.  63 

what  a  crowd  these  poor  people  had  to  go  through  before 
they  got  into  the  house.  Then  she  showed  me  how 
leisurely  they  all  came  into  the  pit,  and  looked  about 
them  before  they  took  their  seats.  She  gave  me  a 
charming  description  of  the  king  and  queen  at  the  play, 
and  showed  me  where  they  sat,  and  told  me  how  the 
princesses  were  dressed.  It  was  a  pretty  sight  to  see 
the  remainder  of  the  candles  lighted  ;  and  so  it  was  to 
see  the  musicians  come  up  from  under  the  stage.  I 
admired  the  music  very  much,  and  I  asked  if  that  was 
the  play.  Frederica  laughed  at  my  ignorance,  and  then 
she  told  me,  when  the  play  began  the  green  curtain 
would  draw  up  to  the  sound  of  soft  music  and  I  should 
hear  a  lady,  dressed  in  black,  say, 

"Music  hath  charms  to  soothe  the  savage  breast ;" 

and  those  were  the  very  first  words  the  actress,  whose 
name  was  Almeria,  spoke.  When  the  curtain  began  to 
draw  up,  and  I  saw  the  bottom  of  her  black  petticoat, 
and  heard  the  soft  music,  what  an  agitation  I  was  in  ! 
But  before  that  we  had  long  to  wait.  Frederica  told  me 
we  should  wait  till  all  the  dress-boxes  were  full,  and  then 
the  lights  would  pop  up  under  the  orchestra ;  the  second 
music  would  play,  and  then  the  play  would  begin. 

This  play  was  the  Mourning  Bride.  It  was  a  very 
moving  tragedy ;  and  after  that,  when  the  curtain 
dropped,  and  I  thought  it  was  all  over,  I  saw  the  most 
diverting  pantomime  that  ever  was  seen.  I  made  a 
strange  blunder  the  next  clay,  for  I  told  papa  that 
Almeria  was  married  to  Harlequin  at  last ;  but  I  assure 
you  I  meant  to  say  Columbine,  for  I  knew  very  well 
that  Almeria  was  married  to  Alphonso  ;  for  she  said  she 
was  in  the  first  scene.  She  thought  he  was  dead,  but 
she  found  him  again,  just  as  I  did  my  papa  and  mamma, 
when  she  least  expected  it. 


64  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 


I  WAS  brought  up  in  the  country.  From  my  infancy  I 
was  always  a  weak  and  tender-spirited  girl,  subject  to 
fears  and  depressions.  My  parents,  and  particularly  my 
mother,  were  of  a  very  different  disposition.  They  were 
what  is  usually  called  gay  :  they  loved  pleasure,  and 
parties,  and  visiting ;  but  as  they  found  the  turn  of  my 
mind  to  be  quite  opposite,  they  gave  themselves  little 
trouble  about  me,  but  upon  such  occasions  generally  left 
me  to  my  choice,  which  was  much  oftener  to  stay  at 
home  and  indulge  myself  in  my  solitude,  than  to  join  in 
their  rambling  visits.  I  was  always  fond  of  being  alone, 
yet  always  in  a  manner  afraid.  There  was  a  book  closet 
which  led  into  my  mother's  dressing-room.  Here  I  was 
eternally  fond  of  being  shut  up  by  myself,  to  take  down 
whatever  volumes  I  pleased,  and  pore  upon  them,  no 
matter  whether  they  were  fit  for  my  years  or  no,  or 
whether  I  understood  them.  Here,  when  the  weather 
would  not  permit  my  going  into  the  dark  walk,  my  walk, 
as  it  was  called,  in  the  garden ;  here,  when  my  parents 
have  been  from  home,  I  have  stayed  for  hours  together, 
till  the  loneliness  which  pleased  me  so  at  first,  has  at 
length  become  quite  frightful  and  I  have  rushed  out  of 
the  closet  into  the  inhabited  parts  of  the  house,  and 
sought  refuge  in  the  lap  of  some  one  of  the  female 
servants,  or  of  my  aunt,  who  would  say,  seeing  me  look 
pale,  that  Maria  had  been  frightening  herself  with  some 
of  those  nasty  books :  so  she  used  to  call  my  favourite 
volumes,  which  I  would  not  have  parted  with,  no,  not 
with  one  of  the  least  of  them,  if  I  had  had  the  choice  to 
be  made  a  fine  princess,  and  to  govern  the  world.  But 
my  aunt  was  no  reader.  She  used  to  excuse  herself,  and 
say  that  reading  hurt  her  eyes.  I  have  been  naughty 
enough  to  think  that  this  was  only  an  excuse,  for  I  found 
that  my  aunt's  weak  eyes  did  not  prevent  her  from  poring 


THE  WITCH  AUNT.  65 

ten  hours  a  day  upon  her  prayer-book,  or  her  favourite 
Thomas  d,  Kempis.  But  this  was  always  her  excuse  for 
not  reading  any  of  the  books  I  recommended.  My  aunt 
was  my  father's  sister.  She  had  never  been  married. 
My  father  was  a  good  deal  older  than  my  mother,  and 
my  aunt  was  ten  years  older  than  my  father.  As  I  was 
often  left  at  home  with  her,  and  as  my  serious  disposition 
so  well  agreed  with  hers,  an  intimacy  grew  up  between 
the  old  lady  and  me,  and  she  would  often  say  that  she 
loved  only  one  person  in  the  world  and  that  was  me. 
Not  that  she  and  my  parents  were  on  very  bad  terms ; 
but  the  old  lady  did  not  feel  herself  respected  enough. 
The  attention  and  fondness  which  she  showed  to  me, 
conscious  as  I  was  that  I  was  almost  the  only  being  she 
felt  anything  like  fondness  to,  made  me  love  her,  as  it 
was  natural ;  indeed,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  that  I  fear  I 
almost  loved  her  better  than  both  my  parents  put  to- 
gether. But  there  was  an  oddness,  a  silence  about  my 
aunt,  which  was  never  interrupted  but  by  her  occasional 
expressions  of  love  to  me,  that  made  me  stand  in  fear  of 
her.  An  odd  look  from  under  her  spectacles  would  some- 
times scare  me  away  when  I  had  been  peering  up  in  her 
face  to  make  her  kiss  me.  Then  she  had  a  way  of 
muttering  to  herself,  which,  though  it  was  good  words 
and  religious  words  that  she  was  mumbling,  somehow  I 
did  not  like.  My  weak  spirits,  and  the  fears  I  was 
subject  to,  always  made  me  afraid  of  any  personal  singu- 
larity or  oddness  in  any  one.  I  am  ashamed,  ladies,  to 
lay  open  so  many  particulars  of  our  family ;  but  indeed 
it  is  necessary  to  the  understanding  of  what  I  am  going 
to  tell  you,  of  a  very  great  weakness,  if  not  wickedness, 
which  I  was  guilty  of  towards  my  aunt.  But  I  must 
return  to  my  studies,  and  tell  you  what  books  I  found 
in  the  closet,  and  what  reading  I  chiefly  admired.  There 
was  a  great  Book  of  Martyrs  in  which  I  used  to  read, 
or  rather  I  used  to  spell  out  meanings  ;  for  I  was  too 
ignorant  to  make  out  many  words ;  but  there  it  was 
written  all  about  those  good  men  who  chose  to  be  burned 
v 


66  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

alive  rather  than  forsake  their  religion  and  become 
naughty  Papists.  Some  words  I  could  make  out,  some  I 
could  not ;  but  I  made  out  enough  to  fill  my  little  head 
with  vanity,  and  I  used  to  think  I  was  so  courageous  I 
could  be  burned  too,  and  I  would  put  my  hands  upon  the 
flames  which  were  pictured  in  the  pretty  pictures  which 
the  book  had,  and  feel  them ;  but  you  know,  ladies,  there 
is  a  great  difference  between  the  flames  in  a  picture  and 
real  fire,  and  I  am  now  ashamed  of  the  conceit  which  I 
had  of  my  own  courage,  and  think  how  poor  a  martyr 
I  should  have  made  in  those  days.  Then  there  was  a 
book  not  so  big ;  but  it  had  pictures  in  it ;  it  was  called 
Culpepper's  Herbal;  it  was  full  of  pictures  of  plants 
and  herbs,  but  I  did  not  much  care  for  that.  Then  there 
was  Salmon's  Modern  History,  out  of  which  I  picked 
a  good  deal.  It  had  pictures  of  Chinese  gods,  and  the 
great  hooded  serpent,  which  ran  strangely  in  my  fancy. 
There  were  some  law  books  too,  but  the  old  English 
frightened  me  from  reading  them.  But  above  all,  what  I 
relished  was  Stackhouse's  History  of  the  Bible,  where 
there  was  the  picture  of  the  ark,  and  all  the  beasts 
getting  into  it.  This  delighted  me,  because  it  puzzled 
me,  and  many  an  aching  head  have  I  got  with  poring 
into  it,  and  contriving  how  it  might  be  built,  with  such 
and  such  rooms  to  hold  all  the  world  if  there  should  be 
another  flood,  and  sometimes  settling  what  pretty  beasts 
should  be  saved  and  what  should  not,  for  I  would  have 
no  ugly  or  deformed  beast  in  my  pretty  ark.  But  this 
was  only  a  piece  of  folly  and  vanity  that  a  little  reflection 
might  cure  me  of.  Foolish  girl  that  I  was  !  to  suppose 
that  any  creature  is  really  ugly  that  has  all  its  limbs 
contrived  with  heavenly  wisdom,  and  was  doubtless 
formed  to  some  beautiful  end,  though  a  child  cannot 
comprehend  it.  Doubtless  a  frog  or  a  toad  is  not  uglier 
in  itself  than  a  squirrel  or  a  pretty  green  lizard ;  but  we 
want  understanding  to  see  it. 

\Here  I  must  remind  you,  my  dear  Miss  Howe,  that 
one  of  the  young  ladies  smiled  and  two  or  three  wei  v  seen 


THE  WITCH  AUNT.  67 

to  titter  at  this  part  of  your  narration,  and  you  seemed, 
I  thought,  a  little  too  angry  for  a  girl  of  your  sense  and 
reading ;  but  you  will  remember,  my  dear,  that  young 
heads  are  not  always  able  to  bear  strange  and  unusual 
assertions  ;  and  if  some  elder  person,  possibly,  or  some 
book  which  you  had  found,  had  not  put  it  into  your  head, 
you  would  hardly  have  discovered  by  your  own  reflection 
that  a  frog  or  a  toad,  was  equal  in  real  loveliness  to  a 
frisking  squirrel,  or  a  pretty  green  lizard,  as  you  called 
it ;  not  remembering  that  at  this  very  time  you  gave  the 
lizard  the  name  of  pretty,  and  left  it  out  to  the  frog — so 
liable  we  are  all  to  prejudices.  But  you  went  on  with 
your  story.] 

These  fancies,  ladies,  were  not  so  very  foolish  or 
naughty,  perhaps,  but  they  may  be  forgiven  in  a  child  of 
six  years  old ;  but  what  I  am  going  to  tell,  I  shall  be 
ashamed  of,  and  repent,  I  hope,  as  long  as  I  live.  It 
will  teach  me  not  to  form  rash  judgments.  Besides  the 
picture  of  the  ark,  and  many  others  which  I  have  forgot, 
Stackhouse  contained  one  picture  which  mads  more  im- 
pression upon  my  childish  understanding  than  all  the  rest. 
It  was  the  picture  of  the  raising  up  of  Samuel,  which  I 
used  to  call  the  Witch  of  Endor  picture.  I  was  always 
very  foud  of  picking  up  stories  about  witches.  There 
was  a  book  called  Glanvil  on  Witches,  which  used  to 
lie  about  in  this  closet ;  it  was  thumbed  about,  and 
showed  it  had  been  much  read  in  former  times.  This 
was  my  treasure.  Here  I  used  to  pick  out  the  strangest 
stories.  My  not  being  able  to  read  them  very  well  prob- 
ably made  them  appear  more  strange  and  out  of  the 
way  to  me.  But  I  could  collect  enough  to  understand 
that  witches  were  old  women  who  gave  themselves  up 
to  do  mischief — how  by  the  help  of  spirits  as  bad  as 
themselves  they  lamed  cattle,  and  made  the  corn  not 
grow ;  and  how  they  made  images  of  wax  to  stand  for 
people  that  had  done  them  any  injury,  or  they  thought 
had  done  them  injury ;  and  how  they  burned  the  images 
before  a  slow  fire,  and  stuck  pins  in  them;  and  the 


68  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

persons  which  these  waxen  images  represented,  however 
far  distant,  felt  all  the  pains  and  torments  in  good  earnest, 
which  were  inflicted  in  show  upon  these  images ;  and 
such  a  horror  I  had  of  these  wicked  witches,  that  though 
I  am  now  better  instructed,  and  look  upon  all  these 
stories  as  mere  idle  tales,  and  invented  to  fill  people's 
heads  with  nonsense,  yet  I  cannot  recall  to  mind  the 
horrors  which  I  then  felt  without  shuddering,  and  feeling 
something  of  the  old  fit  return. 

[Here,  my  dear  Miss  Howe,  you  may  remember  that 

Miss  M ,  the  youngest  of  our  party,  sJiowing  some 

more  curiosity  than  usual,  I  winked  upon  you  to  Jiasten 
to  your  story,  lest  the  terrors  which  you  ivere  describing 
should  make  too  much  impression  upon  a  young  head,  and 
you  kindly  understood  my  sign,  and  said  less  upon  the 
subject  of  your  fears  than  I  fancy  you  first  intended '.] 

This  foolish  book  of  witch  stories  had  no  pictures  in 
it,  but  I  made  up  for  them  out  of  my  own  fancy,  and 
out  of  the  great  picture  of  the  raising  up  of  Samuel  in 
Stackhouse.  I  was  not  old  enough  to  understand  the 
difference  there  was  between  these  silly  improbable  tales, 
which  imputed  such  powers  to  poor  old  women,  who  are 
the  most  helpless  things  in  the  creation,  and  the  narrative 
in  the  Bible,  which  does  not  say  that  the  witch,  or  pre- 
tended witch,  raised  up  the  dead  body  of  Samuel  by  her 
own  power ;  but,  as  it  clearly  appears,  he  was  permitted 
by  the  divine  will  to  appear  to  confound  the  presumption 
of  Saul ;  and  that  the  witch  herself  was  really  as  much 
frightened  and  confounded  at  the  miracle  as  Saul  himself, 
not  expecting  a  real  appearance  ;  but  probably  having 
prepared  some  juggling,  sleight-of-hand  tricks  and  sham 
appearance  to  deceive  the  eyes  of  Saul :  whereas  she,  nor 
any  one  living,  had  never  the  power  to  raise  the  dead  to 
life,  but  only  He  who  made  them  from  the  first.  These 
reasons  I  might  have  read  in  Stackhouse  itself  if  I  had 
been  old  enough,  and  have  read  them  in  that  very  book 
since  I  was  older,  but  at  that  time  I  looked  at  little 
beyond  the  picture. 


THE  WITCH  AUNT.  69 

These  stories  of  witches  so  terrified  me,  that  my  sleeps 
were  troken,  and  in  my  dreams  I  always  had  a  fancy  of 
a  witch  being  in  the  room  with  me.  I  know  now  that 
it  was  only  nervousness ;  but  though  I  can  laugh  at  it 
now  as  well  as  you,  ladies,  if  you  knew  what  I  suffered, 
you  would  be  thankful  that  you  have  had  sensible  people 
about  you  to  instruct  you  and  teach  you  better.  I  was 
let  grow  up  wild  like  an  ill  weed,  and  thrived  accordingly. 
One  night  that  I  had  been  terrified  in  my  sleep  with  my 
imaginations,  I  got  out  of  bed  and  crept  softly  to  the 
adjoining  room.  My  room  was  next  to  where  my  aunt 
usually  sat  when  she  was  alone.  Into  her  room  I  crept 
for  relief  from  my  fears.  The  old  lady  was  not  yet 
retired  to  rest,  but  was  sitting  with  her  eyes  half-open, 
half-closed ;  her  spectacles  tottering  upon  her  nose ;  her 
head  nodding  over  her  prayer-book  ;  her  lips  mumbling 
the  words  as  she  read  them,  or  half -read  them  in  her 
dozing  posture ;  her  grotesque  appearance ;  her  old- 
fashioned  dress,  resembling  what  I  had  seen  in  that  fatal 
picture  in  Stackhouse ;  all  this,  with  the  dead  time  of 
night,  as  it  seemed  to  me  (for  I  had  gone  through  my 
first  sleep),  joined  to  produce  a  wicked  fancy  in  me,  that 
the  form  which  I  had  beheld  was  not  my  aunt,  but  some 
witch.  Her  mumbling  of  her  prayers  confirmed  me  in 
this  shocking  idea.  I  had  read  in  Glanvil  of  those  wicked 
creatures  reading  their  prayers  backwards,  and  I  thought 
that  this  was  the  operation  which  her  lips  were  at  this 
time  employed  about.  Instead  of  flying  to  her  friendly 
lap  for  that  protection  which  I  had  so  often  experienced 
when  I  have  been  weak  and  timid,  I  shrunk  back  terrified 
and  bewildered  to  my  bed,  where  I  lay  in  broken  sleeps 
and  miserable  fancies  till  the  morning,  which  I  had  so 
much  reason  to  wish  for,  came.  My  fancies  a  little  wore 
away  with  the  light,  but  an  impression  was  fixed,  which 
could  not  for  a  long  time  be  done  away.  In  the  daytime, 
when  my  father  and  mother  were  about  the  house,  when 
I  saw  them  familiarly  speak  to  my  aunt,  my  fears  all 
vanished  ;  and  when  the  good  creature  has  taken  me  upon 


70  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

hex  knees  and  shown  me  any  kindness  more  than  ordinary, 
at  such  times  I  have  melted  into  tears  and  longed  to  tell 
her  what  naughty  foolish  fancies  I  had  had  of  her.  But 
when  night  returned,  that  figure  which  I  had  seen  recurred 
— the  posture,  the  half -closed  eyes,  the  mumbling  and 
muttering  which  I  had  heard — a  confusion  was  in  my 
head,  who  it  was  I  had  seen  that  night : — it  was  my  aunt, 
and  it  was  not  my  aunt : — it  was  that  good  creature,  who 
loved  me  above  all  the  world,  engaged  at  her  good  task  of 
devotions — perhaps  praying  for  some  good  to  me.  Again, 
it  was  a  witch — a  creature  hateful  to  God  and  man,  read- 
ing backwards  the  good  prayers ;  who  would  perhaps 
destroy  me.  In  these  conflicts  of  mind  I  passed  several 
weeks,  till,  by  a  revolution  in  my  fate,  I  was  removed  to 
the  house  of  a  female  relation  of  my  mother's,  in  a  distant 
part  of  the  country,  who  had  come  on  a  visit  to  our  house, 
and  observing  my  lonely  ways,  and  apprehensive  of  the 
ill  effect  of  my  mode  of  living  upon  my  health,  begged 
leave  to  take  me  home  to  her  house  to  reside  for  a  short 
time.  I  went  with  some  reluctance  at  leaving  my  closet, 
my  dark  walk,  and  even  my  aunt,  who  had  been  such  a 
source  of  both  love  and  terror  to  me.  But  I  went,  and 
soon  found  the  grand  effects  of  a  change  of  scene.  Instead 
of  melancholy  closets  and  lonely  avenues  of  trees,  I  saw 
lightsome  rooms  and  cheerful  faces ;  I  had  companions  of 
my  own  age ;  no  books  were  allowed  me  but  what  were 
rational  and  sprightly ;  that  gave  ine  mirth  or  gave  me 
instruction.  I  soon  learned  to  laugh  at  witcli  stories ; 
and  when  I  returned  after  three  or  four  mouths'  absence 
to  our  own  house,  my  good  aunt  appeared  to  me  in  the 
same  light  in  which  I  had  viewed  her  from  my  infancy, 
before  that  foolish  fancy  possessed  me,  or  rather,  I  should 
say,  more  kind,  more  fond,  more  loving  than  before.  It 
is  impossible  to  say  how  much  good  that  lady,  the  kind 
relation  of  my  mother's  that  I  spoke  of,  did  to  me  by 
changing  the  scene.  Quite  a  new  turn  of  ideas  was  given 
to  me  ;  I  became  sociable  and  companionable  ;  my  parents 
soon  discovered  a  change  in  me,  and  I  have  found  a 


THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER.      71 

similar  alteration  in  them.  They  have  been  plainly  more 
fond  of  me  since  that  change,  as  from  that  time  I  learned 
to  conform  myself  more  to  their  way  of  living.  I  have 
never  since  had  that  aversion  to  company  and  going  out 
with  them  which  used  to  make  them  regard  me  with  less 
fondness  than  they  would  have  wished  to  show.  I  impute 
almost  all  that  I  had  to  complain  of  in  their  neglect  to 
my  having  been  a  little,  unsociable,  uncompanionable 
mortal.  I  lived  in  this  manner  for  a  year  or  two,  passing 
my  time  between  our  house  and  the  lady's  who  so  kindly 
took  me  in  hand,  till,  by  her  advice,  I  was  sent  to  this 
school ; — where  I  have  told  you,  ladies,  what  for  fear  of 
ridicule  I  never  ventured  to  tell  any  person  besides,  the 
story  of  my  foolish  and  naughty  fancy. 


CHAELOTTE  WILMOT. 

UNTIL  I  was  eleven  years  of  age  my  life  was  one  con- 
tinued series  of  indulgence  and  delight.  My  father  was 
a  merchant,  and  supposed  to  be  in  very  opulent  circum- 
stances, at  least  I  thought  so,  for  at  a  very  early  age  I 
perceived  that  we  lived  in  a  more  expensive  way  than 
any  of  my  father's  friends  did.  It  was  not  the  pride 
of  birth,  of  which,  Miss  Withers,  you  once  imagined 
you  might  justly  boast,  but  the  mere  display  of  wealth 
that  I  was  early  taught  to  set  an  undue  value  on. 
My  parents  spared  no  cost  for  masters  to  instruct 
me ;  I  had  a  French  governess,  and  also  a  woman- 
servant  whose  sole  business  it  was  to  attend  on  me.  My 
playroom  was  crowded  with  toys,  and  my  dress  was  the 
admiration  of  all  my  youthful  visitors,  to  whom  I  gave 
balls  and  entertainments  as  often  as  I  pleased.  I  looked 
down  on  all  my  young  companions  as  my  inferiors ;  but 
I  chiefly  assumed  airs  of  superiority  over  Maria  Hartley, 
whose  father  was  a  clerk  in  my  father's  counting-house. 


72  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

and  therefore  I  concluded  she  would  regard  the  fine  show 
I  made  with  more  envy  and  admiration  than  any  other 
of  my  companions.  In  the  days  of  my  humiliation,  which 
I  too  soon  experienced,  I  was  thrown  on  the  bounty  of 
her  father  for  support.  To  be  a  dependant  on  the 
charity  of  her  family  seemed  the  heaviest  evil  that  could 
have  befallen  me ;  for  I  remembered  how  often  I  had 
displayed  my  finery  and  my  expensive  omaments,  on 
purpose  to  enjoy  the  triumph  of  my  superior  advantages ; 
and,  with  shame  I  now  speak  it,  I  have  often  glanced  at 
her  plain  linen  frock,  when  I  showed  her  my  beautiful 
ball- dresses.  Nay,  I  once  gave  her  a  hint,  which  she 
so  well  understood  that  she  burst  into  tears,  that  I  could 
not  invite  her  to  some  of  my  parties  because  her  mamma 
once  sent  her  on  my  birthday  in  a  coloured  frock.  I 
cannot  now  think  of  my  want  of  feeling  without  excessive 
pain ;  but  one  day  I  saw  her  highly  amused  with  some 
curious  toys,  and  on  her  expressing  the  pleasure  the  sight 
of  them  gave  her,  I  said,  "Yes,  they  are  very  well  for 
those  who  are  not  accustomed  to  these  things ;  but,  for 
my  part,  I  have  so  many,  I  am  tired  of  them,  and  I  am 
quite  delighted  to  pass  an  hour  in  the  empty  closet  your 
mamma  allows  you  to  receive  your  visitors  in,  because 
there  is  nothing  there  to  interrupt  the  conversation." 

Once,  as  I  have  said,  Maria  was  betrayed  into  tears ; 
now  that  I  insulted  her  by  calling  her  own  small  apart- 
ment an  empty  closet,  she  turned  quick  upon  me,  but 
not  in  anger,  saying,  "  Oh,  my  dear  Miss  Wilmot,  how 

very  sony  I  am" Here  she  stopped;  and  though 

I  knew  not  the  meaning  of  hex  words,  I  felt  it  as  a  re- 
proof. I  hung  down  my  head  abashed ;  yet  perceiving 
that  she  was  all  that  day  more  kind  and  obliging  than 
ever,  and  being  conscious  of  not  having  merited  this 
kindness,  I  thought  she  was  mean-spirited,  and  therefore 
I  consoled  myself  with  having  discovered  this  fault  in 
her,  for  I  thought  my  arrogance  was  full  as  excusable  as 
her  meanness. 

In  a  few  days  I  knew  my  error  ;  I  learned  why  Maria 


THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER.      73 

had  been  so  kind,  and  why  she  had  said  she  was  sorry. 
It  was  for  me,  proud  disdainful  girl  that  I  was,  that  she 
was  sorry ;  she  knew,  though  I  did  not,  that  my  father 
was  on  the  brink  of  ruin ;  and  it  came  to  pass,  as  she 
feared  it  would,  that  in  a  few  days  my  playroom  was  as 
empty  as  Maria's  closet,  and  all  my  grandeur  was  at  an  end. 

My  father  had  what  is  called  an  execution  in  the 
house ;  everything  was  seized  that  we  possessed.  Our 
splendid  fururture,  and  even  our  wearing  apparel,  all 
my  beautiful  ball -dresses,  my  trinkets,  and  my  toys, 
were  taken  away  by  my  father's  merciless  creditors. 
The  week  in  which  this  happened  was  such  a  scene  of 
hurry,  confusion,  and  misery,  that  I  will  not  attempt  to 
describe  it. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  I  found  that  my  father  and 
mother  had  gone  out  very  early  in  the  morning.  Mr. 
Hartley  took  me  home  to  his  own  house,  and  I  expected 
to  find  them  there ;  but,  oh !  what  anguish  did  I  feel, 
when  I  heard  him  tell  Mrs.  Hartley  they  had  quitted 
England,  and  that  he  had  brought  me  home  to  live  with 
them.  In  tears  and  sullen  silence  I  passed  the  first 
day  of  my  entrance  into  this  despised  house.  Maria 
was  from  home.  All  the  day  I  sat  in  a  corner  of  the 
room  grieving  for  the  departure  of  my  parents  •  and  if 
for  a  moment  I  forgot  that  sorrow,  I  tormented  myself 
with  imagining  the  many  ways  which  Maria  might 
invent  to  make  me  feel  in  return  the  slights  and  airs 
of  superiority  which  I  had  given  myself  over  her.  Her 
mother  began  the  prelude  to  what  I  expected,  for  I 
heard  her  freely  censure  the  imprudence  of  my  parents. 
She  spoke  in  whispers ;  yet,  though  I  could  not  hear 
every  word,  I  made  out  the  tenor  of  her  discourse. 
She  was  very  anxious,  lest  her  husband  should  be 
involved  in  the  ruin  of  our  house.  He  was  the  chief 
clerk  in  my  father's  counting-house.  Towards  evening 
he  came  in  and  quieted  her  fears  by  the  welcome  news 
that  he  had  obtained  a  more  lucrative  situation  than 'the 
one  he  had  lost. 


74  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

At  eight  in  the  evening  Mrs.  Hartley  said  to  me, 
"  Miss  Wilmot,  it  is  time  for  you  to  be  in  bed,  my  dear ;" 
and  ordered  the  servant  to  show  me  upstairs,  adding  that 
she  supposed  she  must  assist  me  to  undress,  but  that 
when  Maria  came  home,  she  must  teach  me  to  wait  on 
myself.  The  apartment  in  which  I  was  to  sleep  was  at 
the  top  of  the  house.  The  walls  were  white-washed,  and 
the  roof  was  sloping.  There  was  only  one  window  in 
the  room,  a  small  casement,  through  which  the  bright 
moon  shone,  and  it  seemed  to  me  the  most  melancholy 
sight  I  had  ever  beheld.  In  broken  and  disturbed 
slumbers  I  passed  the  night.  When  I  awoke  in  the 
morning,  she  whom  I  most  dreaded  to  see,  Maria,  who  I 
supposed  had  envied  my  former  state,  and  who  I  now 
felt  certain  would  exult  over  my  present  mortifying 
reverse  of  fortune,  stood  by  my  bedside.  She  awakened 
me  from  a  dream,  in  which  I  thought  she  was  ordering 
me  to  fetch  her  something;  and  on  my  refusal,  she  said 
I  must  obey  her,  for  I  was  now  her  servant.  Far 
differently  from  what  my  dreams  had  pictured  did  Maria 
address  me  !  She  said  in  the  gentlest  tone  imaginable, 
"  My  dear  Miss  Wilmot,  my  mother  begs  you  will  come 
down  to  breakfast ;  will  you  give  me  leave  to  dress  you  1" 
My  proud  heart  would  not  suffer  me  to  speak,  and  I 
began  to  attempt  to  put  on  my  clothes ;  but  never  having 
been  used  to  do  anything  for  myself,  I  was  unable  to 
perform  it,  and  was  obliged  to  accept  of  the  assistance  of 
Maria.  She  dressed  me,  washed  my  face,  and  combed 
my  hair  ;  and  as  she  did  these  services  for  me,  she  said 
in  a  most  respectful  manner,  "  Is  this  the  way  you  like 
t>  wear  this,  Miss  Wilmot?"  or,  "Is  this  the  way  you 
like  this  done?"  and  courtesied  as  she  gave  me  every 
fresh  article  to  put  on.  The  slights  I  expected  to  receive 
from  Maria  would  not  have  distressed  me  more  than 
the  delicacy  of  her  behaviour  did.  I  hung  down  my 
head  with  shame  and  anguish. 

In  a  few  days  Mrs.  Hartley  ordered  her  daughter  to 
instruct  me  in  such  useful  works  and  employments  as 


FIRST  GOING  TO  CHURCH.  75 

Maria  knew.  Of  everything  which  she  called  useful  I 
was  most  ignorant.  My  accomplishments  I  found  were 
held  in  small  estimation  here,  by  all  indeed,  except  Maria. 
She  taught  me  nothing  without  the  kindest  apologies  for 
being  obliged  to  teach  me,  who,  she  said,  was  so  excellent 
in  all  elegant  arts  ;  and  was  for  ever  thanking  me  for  the 
pleasure  she  had  formerly  received  from  my  skill  in  music 
and  pretty  fancy  works.  The  distress  I  was  in  made 
these  complimentary  speeches  not  flatteries,  but  sweet 
drops  of  comfort  to  my  degraded  heart,  almost  broken 
with  misfortune  and  remorse. 

I  remained  at  Mr.  Hartley's  but  two  months ;  for  at 
the  end  of  that  time  my  father  inherited  a  considerable 
property  by  the  death  of  a  distant  relation,  which  has 
enabled  him  to  settle  his  affairs.  He  established  himself 
again  as  a  merchant ;  but  as  he  wished  to  retrench  his 
expenses,  and  begin  the  world  again  on  a  plan  of  strict 
economy,  he  sent  me  to  this  school  to  finish  my  education. 


I  WAS  bora  and  brought  up  in  a  house  in  which  my 
parents  had  all  their  lives  resided,  which  stood  in  the 
midst  of  that  lonely  tract  of  land  called  the  Lincolnshire 
Fens.  Few  families  besides  our  own  lived  near  the  spot, 
both  because  it  was  reckoned  an  unwholesome  air,  and 
because  its  distance  from  any  town  or  market  made  it  an 
inconvenient  situation.  My  father  was  in  no  very  affluent 
circumstances,  and  it  was  a  sad  necessity  which  he  was 
put  to  of  having  to  go  many  miles  to  fetch  anything 
from  the  nearest  village,  which  was  full  seven  miles 
distant,  through  a  sad  miry  way  that  at  all  times  made 
it  heavy  walking,  and  after  rain  was  almost  impassable. 
But  he  had  no  horse  or  carriage  of  his  own. 

The  church  which  belonged  to  the  parish  in  which 


76  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

our  house  was  situated  stood  in  this  village;  and  its 
distance  being,  as  I  said  before,  seven  miles  from  our 
house,  made  ifc  quite  an  impossible  thing  for  my  mother 
or  me  to  think  of  going  to  it.  Sometimes,  indeed,  on  a 
fine  dry  Sunday  my  father  would  rise  early,  and  take  a 
walk  to  the  village,  just  to  see  how  goodness  thrived,  as 
he  used  to  say ;  but  he  would  generally  return  tired,  and 
the  worse  for  his  walk.  It  is  scarcely  possible  to  explain 
to  any  one  who  has  not  lived  in  the  Fens  what  difficult 
and  dangerous  walking  it  is.  A  mile  is  as  good  as  four, 
I  have  heard  my  father  say,  in  those  parts.  My  mother, 
who  in  the  early  part  of  her  life  had  lived  in  a  more 
civilised  spot,  and  had  been  used  to  constant  church- 
going,  would  often  lament  her  situation.  It  was  from 
her  I  early  imbibed  a  great  curiosity  and  anxiety  to  see 
that  thing  which  I  had  heard  her  call  a  church,  and  so 
often  lament  that  she  could  never  go  to.  I  had  seen 
houses  of  various  structures,  and  had  seen  in  pictures  the 
shapes  of  ships  and  boats,  and  palaces  and  temples,  but 
never  rightly  anything  that  could  be  called  a  church,  or 
that  could  satisfy  me  about  its  form.  Sometimes  I 
thought  it  must  be  like  our  house,  and  sometimes  I 
fancied  it  must  be  more  like  the  house  of  our  neighbour, 
Mr.  Sutton,  which  was  bigger  and  handsomer  than  ours. 
Sometimes  I  thought  it  was  a  great  hollow  cave,  such  as 
I  have  heard  my  father  say  the  first  inhabitants  of  the 
earth  dwelt  in.  Then  I  thought  it  was  like  a  waggon, 
or  a  cart,  and  that  it  must  be  something  movable.  The 
shape  of  it  ran  in  my  mind  strangely,  and  one  day  I 
ventured  to  ask  my  mother  what  was  that  foolish  thing 
she  was  always  longing  to  go  to,  and  which  she  called 
a  church.  Was  it  anything  to  eat  or  drink,  or  was  it 
only  like  a  great  huge  plaything  to  be  seen  and  stared 
at  1 — I  was  not  quite  five  years  of  age  when  I  made  this 
inquiry. 

This  question,  so  oddly  put,  made  my  mother  smile ; 
but  in  a  little  time  she  put  on  a  more  grave  look,  and 
informed  me  that  a  church  was  nothing  that  I  had 


FIRST  GOING  TO  CHURCH.  77 

supposed  it,  but  it  was  a  great  building,  far  greater  than 
any  house  which  I  had  seen,  where  men  and  women 
and  children  came  together  twice  a  day  on  Sundays,  to 
hear  the  Bible  read,  and  make  good  resolutions  for  the 
week  to  come.  She  told  me  that  the  fine  music  which 
we  sometimes  heard  in  the  air  came  from  the  bells  of 
St.  Mary's  Church,  and  that  we  never  heard  it  but  when 
the  wind  was  in  a  particular  point.  This  raised  my 
wonder  more  than  all  the  rest ;  for  I  had  somehow  con- 
ceived that  the  noise  which  I  heard  was  occasioned  by 
birds  up  in  the  air,  or  that  it  was  made  by  the  angels, 
whom  (so  ignorant  I  was  till  that  time)  I  had  always 
considered  to  be  a  sort  of  birds;  fur  before  this  time 
I  was  totally  ignorant  of  anything  like  religion,  it  being 
a  principle  of  my  father  that  young  heads  should  not  be 
told  too  many  things  at  once,  for  fear  they  should  get 
confused  ideas  and  no  clear  notions  of  anything.  We 
had  always  indeed  so  far  observed  Sundays,  that  no  work 
was  done  upon  that  day,  and  upon  that  day  I  wore  my 
best  muslin  frock,  and  was  not  allowed  to  sing  or  to 
be  noisy ;  but  I  never  understood  why  that  day  should 
differ  from  any  other.  We  had  no  public  meetings : 
indeed,  the  few  straggling  houses  which  were  near  us 
would  have  furnished  but  a  slender  congregation ;  and 
the  loneliness  of  the  place  we  lived  in,  instead  of  making 
us  more  sociable,  and  drawing  us  closer  together,  as  iny 
mother  used  to  say  it  ought  to  have  done,  seemed  to 
have  the  effect  of  making  us  more  distant  and  averse  to 
society  than  other  people.  One  or  two  good  neighbours 
indeed  we  had,  but  not  in  numbers  to  give  me  an  idea 
of  church  attendance. 

But  now  my  mother  thought  it  high  time  to  give  me 
some  clearer  instruction  in  the  main  points  of  religion, 
and  my  father  came  readily  into  her  plan.  I  was  now 
permitted  to  sit  up  half  an  hour  later  on  a  Sunday  even- 
ing that  I  might  hear  a  portion  of  Scripture  read,  which 
had  always  been  their  custom,  though  by  reason  of  my 
tender  age,  and  my  father's  opinion  on  the  impropriety 


78  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL, 

of  children  being  taught  too  young,  I  had  never  till  now 
been  an  auditor.  I  was  taught  my  prayers,  and  those 
things  which  you,  ladies,  I  doubt  not,  had  the  benefit  of 
being  instructed  in  at  a  much  earlier  age. 

The  clearer  my  notions  on  these  points  became,  they 
only  made  me  more  passionately  long  for  the  privilege 
of  joining  in  that  social  service,  from  which  it  seemed 
that  we  alone,  of  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  land,  were 
debarred ;  and  when  the  wind  was  in  that  point  which 
enabled  the  sound  of  the  distant  bells  of  St.  Mary's  to 
be  heard  over  the  great  moor  which  skirted  our  house, 
I  have  stood  out  in  the  air  to  catch  the  sounds,  which  I 
almost  devoured ;  and  the  tears  have  come  into  my  eyes 
when  sometimes  they  seemed  to  speak  to  me  almost  in 
articulate  sounds,  to  come  to  church,  and  because  of  the 
great  moor  which  was  between  me  and  them,  I  could 
not  come ;  and  the  too  tender  apprehensions  of  these 
things  have  filled  me  with  a  religious  melancholy. 
With  thoughts  like  these  I  entered  into  my  seventh 
year. 

And  now  the  time  was  come  when  the  great  moor 
was  no  longer  to  separate  me  from  the  object  of  my 
wishes  and  of  my  curiosity.  My  father  having  some 
money  left  him  by  the  will  of  a  deceased  relation,  we 
ventured  to  set  up  a  sort  of  a  carriage — no  very  superb 
one,  I  assure  you,  ladies ;  but  in  that  part  of  the  world 
it  was  looked  upon  with  some  envy  by  our  poorer  neigh- 
bours. The  first  party  of  pleasure  which  my  father 
proposed  to  take  in  it  was  to  the  village  where  I  had 
so  often  wished  to  go,  and  my  mother  and  I  were  to 
accompany  him ;  for  it  was  very  fit,  my  father  observed, 
that  little  Susan  should  go  to  church  and  learn  how  to 
behave  herself,  for  we  might  some  time  or  other  have 
occasion  to  live  in  London,  and  not  always  be  confined 
to  that  out-of-the-way  spot. 

It  was  on  a  Sunday  morning  that  we  set  out,  my 
little  heart  beating  with  almost  breathless  expectation. 
The  day  was  fine,  and  the  roads  as  good  as  they  ever 


FIRST  GOING  TO  CHURCH.  79 

are  in  those  parts.  I  was  so  happy  and  so  proud !  I 
was  lost  in  dreams  of  what  I  was  going  to  see.  At 
length  the  tall  steeple  of  St.  Mary's  Church  came  in 
view.  It  was  pointed  out  to  me  by  my  father,  as  the 
place  from  which  that  music  had  come,  which  I  had 
heard  over  the  moor,  and  had  fancied  to  be  angels 
singing.  I  was  wound  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of  delight 
at  having  visibly  presented  to  me  the  spot  from  which 
had  proceeded  that  unknown  friendly  music ;  and  when 
it  began  to  peal,  just  as  we  approached  the  village,  it 
seemed  to  speak,  8usan  is  come,  as  plainly  as  it  used  to 
invite  me  to  come,  when  I  heard  it  over  the  moor.  I 
pass  over  our  alighting  at  the  house  of  a  relation,  and 
all  that  passed  till  I  went  with  my  father  and  mother  to 
church. 

St.  Mary's  Church  is  a  great  church  for  such  a  small 
village  as  it  stands  in.  My  father  said  it  had  been  a 
cathedral,  and  that  it  had  once  belonged  to  a  monastery, 
but  the  monks  were  all  gone.  Over  the  door  there  was 
stonework,  representing  saints  and  bishops,  and  here  and 
there,  along  the  sides  of  the  church,  there  were  figures 
of  men's  heads  made  in  a  strange  grotesque  way :  I  have 
since  seen  the  same  sort  of  figures  in  the  round  tower  of 
the  Temple  Church  in  London.  My  father  said  they 
were  very  improper  ornaments  for  such  a  place,  and  so  I 
now  think  them ;  but  it  seems  the  people  who  built  these 
great  churches  in  old  times  gave  themselves  more  liberties 
than  they  do  now ;  and  I  remember  that  when  I  first 
saw  them,  and  before  my  father  had  made  this  observa- 
tion, though  they  were  so  ugly  and  out  of  shape,  and 
some  of  them  seem  to  be  grinning  and  distorting  their 
features  with  pain  or  with  laughter,  yet  being  placed 
upon  a  church,  to  which  I  had  come  with  such  serious 
thoughts,  I  could  not  help  thinking  they  had  some  serious 
meaning ;  and  I  looked  at  them  with  wonder,  but  with- 
out any  temptation  to  laugh.  I  somehow  fancied  they 
were  the  representation  of  wicked  people  set  up  as  a 
warning. 


80  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

When  we  got  into  the  church,  the  service  was  not 
begun,  and  my  father  kindly  took  me  round  to  show 
me  the  monuments  and  everything  else  remarkable.  I 
remember  seeing  one  of  a  venerable  figure,  which  my 
father  said  had  been  a  judge.  The  figure  was  kneeling, 
as  if  it  was  alive,  before  a  sort  of  desk,  with  a  book,  I 
suppose  the  Bible,  lying  on  it.  I  somehow  fancied  the 
figure  had  a  sort  of  life  in  it,  it  seemed  so  natural,  or 
that  the  dead  judge  that  it  was  done  for  said  his  prayers 
at  it  still.  This  was  a  silly  notion,  but  I  was  very 
young,  and  had  passed  my  little  life  in  a  remote  place, 
where  I  had  never  seen  anything  nor  knew  anything ; 
and  the  awe  which  I  felt  at  first  being  in  a  church  took 
from  me  all  power  but  that  of  wondering.  I  did  not 
reason  about  anything ;  I  was  too  young.  Now  I  under- 
stand why  monuments  are  put  up  for  the  dead,  and  why 
the  figures  which  are  put  upon  them  are  described  as 
doing  the  actions  which  they  did  in  their  lifetimes,  and 
that  they  are  a  sort  of  pictures  set  up  for  our  instruction. 
But  all  was  new  and  surprising  to  me  on  that  day — the 
long  windows  with  little  panes,  the  pillars,  the  pews 
made  of  oak,  the  little  hassocks  for  the  people  to  kneel 
on,  the  form  of  the  pulpit,  with  the  sounding-board  over 
it,  gracefully  carved  in  flower- work.  To  you,  who  have 
lived  all  your  lives  in  populous  places,  and  have  been 
taken  to  church  from. the  earliest  time  you  can  remember, 
my  admiration  of  these  things  must  appear  strangely 
ignorant.  But  I  was  a  lonely  young  creature,  that  had 
been  brought  \ip  in  remote  places,  where  there  was  neither 
church  nor  church-going  inhabitants.  I  have  since  lived 
in  great  towns,  and  seen  the  ways  of  churches  and  of 
worship,  and  I  am  old  enough  now  to  distinguish  between 
what  is  essential  in  religion,  and  what  is  merely  formal 
or  ornamental. 

When  my  father  had  done  pointing  out  to  me  the 
things  most  worthy  of  notice  about  the  church,  the  service 
was  almost  ready  to  begin ;  the  parishioners  had  most  of 
them  entered  and  taken  their  seats  ;  and  we  were  shown 


FIRST  GOING  TO  CHURCH.  81 

into  a  pew  where  my  mother  was  already  seated.  Soon 
after  the  clergyman  entered,  and  the  organ  began  to  play 
what  is  called  the  voluntary.  I  had  never  seen  so  many 
people  assembled  before.  At  first  I  thought  that  all  eyes 
were  upon  me,  and  that  because  I  was  a  stranger.  I 
was  terribly  ashamed  and  confused  at  first  ;  but  my 
mother  helped  me  to  find  out  the  places  in  the  prayer- 
book,  and  being  busy  about  that  took  off  some  of  my 
painful  apprehensions.  I  was  no  stranger  to  the  order 
of  the  service,  having  often  read  in  the  prayer-book  at 
home,  but  my  thoughts  being  confused,  it  puzzled  me  a 
little  to  find  out  the  responses  and  other  things,  which  I 
thought  I  knew  so  well ;  but  I  went  through  it  tolerably 
well.  One  thing  which  has  often  troubled  me  since  is, 
that  I  am  afraid  I  was  too  full  of  myself  and  of  thinking 
how  happy  I  was,  and  what  a  privilege  it  was  for  one 
that  was  so  young  to  join  in  the  service  with  so  many 
grown  people,  so  that  I  did  not  attend  enough  to  the 
instruction  which  I  might  have  received.  I  remember  I 
foolishly  applied  everything  that  was  said  to  myself,  so 
as  it  could  mean  nobody  but  myself,  I  was  so  full  of  my 
own  thoughts.  All  that  assembly  of  people  seemed  to 
me  as  if  they  were  come  together  only  to  show  me  the 
way  of  a  church.  Not  but  I  received  some  very  affecting 
impressions  from  some  things  which  I  heard  that  day ; 
but  the  standing  up  and  sitting  down  of  the  people,  the 
organ,  the  singing : — the  way  of  all  these  things  took 
up  more  of  my  attention  than  was  proper ;  or  I  thought 
it  did.  I  believe  I  behaved  better,  and  was  more  serious 
when  I  went  a  second  time,  and  a  third  time ;  for  now 
we  went  as  a  regular  thing  every  Sunday,  and  continued 
to  do  so,  till,  by  a  still  further  change  for  the  better  in 
my  father's  circumstances,  we  removed  to  London.  Oh  ! 
it  was  a  happy  day  for  me  my  first  going  to  St.  Mary's 
Church ;  before  that  day  I  used  to  feel  like  a  little  out- 
cast in  the  wilderness,  like  one  that  did  not  belong  to 
the  world  of  Christian  people.  I  have  never  felt  like  a 
little  outcast  since.  But  I  never  can  hear  the  sweet 


82  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

noise  of  bells,  that  I  don't  think  of  the  angels  singing, 
and  what  poor  but  pretty  thoughts  I  had  of  angels  in  rny 
uninstructed  solitude. 


ARABELLA  HARDY. 

I  WAS  born  in  the  East  Indies.  I  lost  my  father  and 
mother  young.  At  the  age  of  five  my  relations  thought 
it  proper  that  I  should  be  sent  to  England  for  my  edu- 
cation. I  was  to  be  intrusted  to  the  care  of  a  young 
woman  who  had  a  character  for  great  humanity  and 
discretion ;  but  just  as  I  had  taken  leave  of  my  friends, 
and  we  were  about  to  take  our  passage,  the  young  woman 
suddenly  fell  sick,  and  could  not  go  on  board.  In  this 
unpleasant  emergency  no  one  knew  how  to  act.  The 
ship  was  at  the  very  point  of  sailing,  and  it  was  the  last 
which  was  to  sail  for  the  season.  At  length  the  captain, 
who  was  known  to  my  friends,  prevailed  upon  my  relation, 
who  had  come  with  us  to  see  us  embark,  to  leave  the 
young  woman  on  shore,  and  to  let  me  embark  separately. 
There  was  no  possibility  of  getting  any  other  female 
attendant  for  me  in  the  short  time  allotted  for  our  pre- 
paration ;  and  the  opportunity  of  going  by  that  ship  was 
thought  too  valuable  to  be  lost.  No  other  ladies  happened 
to  be  going,  and  so  I  was  consigned  to  the  care  of  the 
captain  and  his  crew — rough  and  unaccustomed  attendants 
for  a  young  creature  delicately  brought  up  as  I  had  been ; 
but  indeed  they  did  their  best  to  make  me  not  feel  the 
difference.  The  unpolished  sailors  were  my  nursery-maids 
and  my  waiting-women.  Everything  was  done  by  the 
captain  and  the  men  to  accommodate  me,  and  make  me 
easy.  I  had  a  little  room  made  out  of  the  cabin,  which 
was  to  be  considered  as  my  room,  and  nobody  might 
enter  into  it.  The  first  mate  had  a  great  character  for 
bravery  and  all  sailor-like  accomplishments;  but  with 
all  this  he  had  a  gentleness  of  manners,  and  a  pale 
feminine  cast  of  face,  from  ill  health  and  a  weakly  cou- 


THE  SEA-VOYAGE.  83 

ptitution,  which  subjected  him  to  some  ridicule  from  the 
officers,  and  caused  him  to  be  named  Betsy.  He  did 
not  much  like  the  appellation,  but  he  submitted  to  it 
the  better,  saying  that  those  who  gave  him  a  woman's 
name  well  knew  that  he  had  a  man's  heart,  and  that  in 
the  face  of  danger  he  would  go  as  far  as  any  man.  To 
this  young  man,  whose  real  name  was  Charles  Atkinson, 
by  a  lucky  thought  of  the  captain,  the  care  of  me  was 
especially  intrusted.  Betsy  was  proud  of  his  charge, 
and,  to  do  him  justice,  acquitted  himself  with  great 
diligence  and  adroitness  through  the  whole  of  the  voyage. 
From  the  beginning  I  had  somehow  looked  upon  Betsy 
as  a  woman,  hearing  him  so  spoken  of,  and  this  reconciled 
me  in  some  measure  to  the  want  of  a  maid  which  I  had 
been  used  to.  But  I  was  a  manageable  girl  at  all  times, 
and  gave  nobody  much  trouble. 

I  have  not  knowledge  enough  to  give  an  account  of 
my  Toyage,  or  to  remember  the  names  of  the  seas  we 
passed  through,  or  the  lands  which  we  touched  upon  in 
our  course.  The  chief  thing  I  can  remember  (for  I  do 
not  recollect  the  events  of  the  voyage  in  any  order)  was 
Atkinson  taking  me  upon  deck  to  see  the  great  whales 
playing  about  in  the  sea.  There  was  one  great  whale 
came  bounding  up  out  of  the  sea,  and  then  he  would 
dive  into  it  again,  and  then  would  come  up  at  a  distance 
where  nobody  expected  him,  and  another  whale  was 
following  after  him.  Atkinson  said  they  were  at  play, 
and  that  the  lesser  whale  loved  that  bigger  whale,  and 
kept  it  company  all  through  the  wide  seas;  but  I 
thought  it  strange  play,  and  a  frightful  kind  of  love  ;  for 
I  every  minute  expected  they  would  come  up  to  our  ship 
and  toss  it.  But  Atkinson  said  a  whale  was  a  gentle 
creature,  and  it  was  a  sort  of  sea-elephant,  and  that  the 
most  powerful  creatures  in  nature  are  always  the  least 
hurtful.  And  he  told  me  how  men  went  out  to  take 
these  whales,  and  stuck  long  pointed  darts  into  them ; 
and  how  the  sea  was  discoloured  with  the  blood  of  these 
poor  whales  for  many  miles'  distance  \  and  I  admired 


84  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

the  courage  of  the  men,  but  I  was  sorry  for  the  inoffen- 
sive whale.  Many  other  pretty  sights  he  used  to  show 
me,  when  he  was  not  on  watch,  or  doing  some  duty  for 
the  ship.  No  one  was  more  attentive  to  his  duty  than 
he ;  but  at  such  times  as  he  had  leisure  he  would  show 
me  all  pretty  sea-sights : — the  dolphins  and  porpoises 
that  came  before  a  storm,  and  all  the  colours  which  the 
sea  changed  to ;  how  sometimes  it  was  a  deep  blue 
and  then  a  deep  green,  and  sometimes  it  would  seem  all 
on  fire;  all  these  various  appearances  he  would  show 
me,  and  attempt  to  explain  the  reason  of  them  to  me,  as 
well  as  my  young  capacity  would  admit  of.  There  were 
a  lion  and  a  tiger  on  board,  going  to  England  as  a 
present  to  the  king;  and  it  was  a  great  diversion  to 
Atkinson  and  me,  after  I  got  rid  of  my  first  terrors, 
to  see  the  ways  of  these  beasts  in  their  dens,  and  how 
venturous  the  sailors  were  in  putting  their  hands  through 
the  grates,  and  patting  their  rough  coats.  Some  of  the 
men  had  monkeys,  which  ran  loose  about,  and  the  sport 
was  for  the  men  to  lose  them  and  find  them  again.  The 
monkeys  would  run  up  the  shrouds,  and  pass  from  rope 
to  rope,  with  ten  times  greater  alacrity  than  the  most 
experienced  sailor  could  follow  them ;  and  .sometimes 
they  would  hide  themselves  in  the  most  unthought-of 
places,  and  when  they  were  found,  they  would  grin  and 
make  mouths,  as  if  they  had  sense.  Atkinson  described 
to  me  the  ways  of  these  little  animals  in  their  native 
woods,  for  he  had  seen  them.  Oh,  how  many  ways  he 
thought  of  to  amuse  me  in  that  long  voyage  ! 

Sometimes  he  would  describe  to  me  the  odd  shapes 
and  varieties  of  fishes  that  were  in  the  sea,  and  tell  me 
tales  of  the  sea-monsters  that  lay  hid  at  the  bottom,  and 
were  seldom  seen  by  men ;  and  what  a  glorious  sight  it 
would  be,  if  our  eyes  could  be  sharpened  to  behold  all 
the  inhabitants  of  the  sea  at  once  swimming  in  the  great 
deeps,  as  plain  as  we  see  the  gold  and  silver  fish  in  a 
bowl  of  glass.  With  such  notions  he  enlarged  my  infant 
capacity  to  take  in  many  things. 


THE  SEA-VOYAGE.  85 

When  in  foul  weather  I  have  been  terrified  at  the 
motion  of  the  vessel,  as  it  rocked  backwards  and  for- 
wards, he  would  still  my  fears,  and  tell  me  that  I  used 
to  be  rocked  so  once  in  a  cradle,  and  that  the  sea  was 
God's  bed,  and  the  ship  our  cradle,  and  we  were  as  safe 
in  thnt  greater  motion  as  when  we  felt  that  lesser  one  in 
our  little  wooden  sleeping-places.  When  the  wind  was 
up,  and  sang  through  the  sails,  and  disturbed  me  with 
its  violent  clamours,  he  would  call  it  music,  and  bid  me 
hark  to  the  sea-organ,  and  with  that  name  he  quieted 
my  tender  apprehensions.  When  I  have  looked  around 
with  a  mournful  face  at  seeing  all  men  about  me,  he 
would  enter  into  my  thoughts,  and  tall  me  pretty  stories 
of  his  mother  and  his  sisters,  and  a  female  cousin  that 
he  loved  better  than  his  sisters,  whom  he  called  Jenny, 
and  say  that  when  we  got  to  England  I  should  go  and 
see  them,  and  how  fond  Jenny  would  be  of  his  little 
daughter,  as  he  called  me;  and  with  these  images  of 
women  and  females  which  he  raised  in  my  fancy,  he 
quieted  me  for  a  while.  One  time,  and  never  but  once, 
he  told  me  that  Jenny  had  promised  to  be  his  wife  if 
ever  he  came  to  England,  but  that  he  had  his  doubts 
whether  he  should  live  to  get  home,  for  he  was  very 
sickly.  This  made  me  cry  bitterly. 

That  I  dwell  so  long  upon  the  attention  of  this 
Atkinson,  is  only  because  his  death,  which  happened 
just  before  we  got  to  England,  affected  me  so  much, 
that  he  alone  of  all  the  ship's  crew  has  engrossed  my 
mind  ever  since ;  though  indeed  the  captain  and  all 
were  singularly  kind  to  me,  and  strove  to  make  up  for 
my  uneasy  and  unnatural  situation.  The  boatswain  would 
pipe  for  my  diversion,  and  the  sailor-boy  would  climb 
the  dangerous  mast  for  my  sport.  The  rough  foremast- 
man  would  never  willingly  appear  before  me  till  he  had 
combed  his  long  black  hair  smooth  and  sleek,  not  to 
terrify  me.  The  officers  got  up  a  sort  of  play  for  my 
amusement,  and  Atkinson,  or,  as  they  called  him,  Betsy, 
acted  the  heroine  of  the  piece.  All  ways  that  could 


86  MRS.  LEICESTER'S  SCHOOL. 

be  contrived  were  thought  upon  to  reconcile  me  to  my 
lot.  I  was  the  universal  favourite ;  I  do  not  know  how 
deservedly;  but  I  suppose  it  was  because  I  was  alone, 
and  there  was  no  female  in  the  ship  besides  me.  Had 
I  come  over  with  female  relations  or  attendants,  I  should 
have  excited  no  particular  curiosity;  I  should  have  re- 
quired no  uncommon  attentions.  I  was  one  little  woman 
among  a  crew  of  men  ;  and  I  believe  the  homage  which 
I  have  read  that  men  universally  pay  to  women,  was  in 
this  case  directed  to  me  in  the  absence  of  all  other  women- 
kind.  I  do  not  know  how  that  might  be,  but  I  was  a  little 
princess  among  them,  and  I  was  not  six  years  old. 

I  remember  the  first  drawback  which  happened  to  my 
comfort  was  Atkinson's  not  appearing  the  whole  of  one 
day.  The  captain  tried  to  reconcile  me  to  it  by  saying 
that  Mr.  Atkinson  was  confined  to  his  cabin  ;  that  he 
was  not  quite  well,  but  a  day  or  two  would  restore  him. 
I  begged  to  be  taken  in  to  see  him,  but  this  was  not 
granted.  A  day,  and  then  another  came,  and  another, 
and  no  Atkinson  was  visible,  and  I  saw  apparent  solici- 
tude in  the  faces  of  all  the  officers,  who  nevertheless 
strove  to  put  on  their  best  countenances  before  me,  and 
to  be  more  than  usually  kind  to  me.  At  length,  by  the 
desire  of  Atkinson  himself,  as  I  have  since  learned,  I  was 
permitted  to  go  into  his  cabin  and  see  him.  He  was 
sitting  up,  apparently  in  a  state  of  great  exhaustion ;  but 
his  face  lighted  up  when  he  saw  me,  and  he  kissed  me 
and  told  me  that  he  was  going  a  great  voyage,  far  longer 
than  that  which  we  had  passed  together,  and  he  should 
never  come  back ;  and  though  I  was  so  young,  I  under- 
stood well  enough  that  he  meant  this  of  his  death,  and  I 
cried  sadly  ;  but  he  comforted  me,  and  told  me  that  I 
must  be  his  little  executrix,  and  perform  his  last  will,  and 
bear  his  last  words  to  his  mother  and  his  sisters,  and  to 
his  cousin  Jenny,  whom  I  should  see  in  a  short  time; 
and  he  gave  me  his  blessing,  as  a  father  would  bless  his 
child,  and  he  sent  a  last  kiss  by  me  to  all  his  female 
relations,  and  he  made  me  promise  that  I  would  go  and 


THE  SEA-VOYAGE.  87 

see  them  when  I  got  to  England.  And  soon  after  this  he 
died.  But  I  was  in  another  part  of  the  ship  when  he 
died,  and  I  was  not  told  it  till  we  got  to  shore,  which 
was  a  few  days  after ;  but  they  kept  telling  me  that  he 
was  better  and  better,  and  that  I  should  soon  see  him, 
but  that  it  disturbed  him  to  talk  with  any  one.  Oh, 
what  a  grief  it  was  when  I  learned  that  I  had  lost  an  old 
shipmate  that  had  made  an  irksome  situation  so  bearable 
by  his  kind  assiduities  ;  and  to  think  that  he  was  gone, 
and  I  could  never  repay  him  for  his  kindness  ! 

When  I  had  been  a  year  and  a  half  in  England,  the 
captain,  who  had  made  another  voyage  to  India  and 
back,  thinking  that  time  had  alleviated  a  little  the 
sorrow  of  Atkinson's  relations,  prevailed  upon  my  friends 
who  had  the  care  of  me  in  England  to  let  him  introduce 
me  to  Atkinson's  mother  and  sisters.  Jenny  was  uo 
more ;  she  had  died  in  the  interval,  and  I  never  saw  her. 
Grief  for  his  death  had  brought  on  a  consumption,  of 
whicli  she  lingered  about  a  twelvemonth  and  then  expired. 
But  in  the  mother  and  the  sisters  of  this  excellent  young 
man  I  have  found  the  most  valuable  friends  I  possess 
on  this  side  the  great  ocean.  They  received  me  from 
the  captain  as  the  little  protegee  of  Atkinson,  and  from 
them  I  have  learned  passages  of  his  former  life ;  and  this 
in  particular,  that  the  illness  of  which  he  died  was  brought 
on  by  a  wound  of  which  he  never  quite  recovered,  which 
he  got  in  the  desperate  attempt,  when  he  was  quite  a 
boy,  to  defend  his  captain  against  a  superior  force  of  the 
enemy  whicli  had  boarded  him,  and  which,  by  his  pre- 
mature valour  inspiriting  the  men,  they  finally  succeeded 
in  repulsing.  This  was  that  Atkinson  who,  from  his 
pale  and  feminine  appearance,  was  called  Betsy;  this 
was  he  whose  womanly  care  of  me  got  him  the  name  of 
a  woman ;  who,  with  more  than  female  attention,  conde- 
scended to  play  the  handmaid  to  a  little  unaccompanied 
orphan  that  fortune  had  cast  upon  the  care  of  a  rough 
sea-captain  and  his  rougher  crew. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

THIS  work  is  designed  as  a  supplement  to  the  Adven- 
tures of  Tdemarhm.  It  treats  of  the  conduct  and 
sufferings  of  Ulysses,  the  father  of  Telenuchus.  The 
picture  which  it  exhibits  is  that  of  a  brave  man  strug- 
gling with  adversity ;  by  a  wise  use  of  events,  and  with 
an  inimitable  presence  of  mind  under  difficulties,  forcing 
out  a  way  for  himself  through  the  severest  trials  to  which 
human  life  can  be  exposed;  with  enemies  natural  and 
preternatural  surrounding  him  on  all  sides.  The  agents 
in  this  tale,  besides  men  and  women,  are  giants,  en- 
chanters, sirens  :  things  which  denote  external  force  or 
internal  temptations,  the  twofold  danger  which  a  wise 
fortitude  must  expect  to  encounter  in  its  course  through 
this  world.  The  fictions  contained  in  it  will  be  found  to 
comprehend  some  of  the  most  admired  inventions  of 
Grecian  mythology. 

The  groundwork  of  the  story  is  as  old  as  the  Odyssey, 
but  the  moral  and  the  colouring  are  comparatively  modern. 
By  avoiding  the  prolixity  which  marks  the  speeches  and 
the  descriptions  in  Homer,  I  have  gained  a  rapidity  to 
the  narration  which  I  hope  will  make  it  more  attractive 
and  give  it  more  the  air  of  a  romance  to  young  readers, 
though  I  am  sensible  that  by  the  curtailment  I  have 
sacrificed  in  many  places  the  manners  to  the  passion,  the 
subordinate  characteristics  to  the  essential  interest  of  the 
story.  The  attempt  is  not  to  be  considered  as  seeking  a 
comparison  with  any  of  the  direct  translations  of  the 
Odyssey,  either  in  prose  or  verse,  though  if  I  were  to 


90  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

state  the  obligations  which  I  have  had  to  one  obsolete 
version,1  I  should  have  run  the  hazard  of  depriving  my- 
self of  the  very  slender  degree  of  reputation  which  I 
could  hope  to  acquire  from  a  trifle  like  the  present  under- 
taking. 

CHAPTER  I. 

The  Cicons — Tlie  fruit  of  the  lotos-tree  —  Polyphemus  and  the 
Cyclops — The  kingdom  of  the  winds,  and  God  jEolus's  fatal 
present — The  Lzestrygouiau  man-eaters. 

THIS  history  tells  of  the  wanderings  of  Ulysses  and  his 
followers  in  their  return  from  Troy,  after  the  destruction 
of  that  famous  city  of  Asia  by  the  Grecians.  He  was 
inflamed  with  a  desire  of  seeing  again,  after  a  ten  years' 
absence,  his  wife  and  native  country  Ithaca.  He  was 
king  of  a  barren  spot,  and  a  poor  country,  in  comparison 
of  the  fruitful  plains  of  Asia  which  he  was  leaving,  or 
the  wealthy  kingdoms  which  he  touched  upon  in  hid  re- 
turn ;  yet  wherever  he  came,  he  could  never  see  a  soil 
which  appeared  in  his  eyes  half  so  sweet  or  desirable  as 
his  country  earth.  This  made  him  refuse  the  offers  of 
the  goddess  Calypso  to  stay  with  her,  and  partake  of  her 
immortality,  in  the  delightful  island  :  and  this  gave  him 
strength  to  break  from  the  enchantments  of  Circe,  the 
daughter  of  the  Sun. 

From  Troy  ill  winds  cast  Ulysses  and  his  fleet  upon 
the  coast  of  the  Cicons,  a  people  hostile  to  the  Grecians. 
Landing  his  forces,  he  laid  siege  to  their  chief  city  Ismarus, 
which  he  took,  and  with  it  much  spoil,  and  slew  many 
people.  But  success  proved  fatal  to  him ;  for  his  soldiers, 
elated  with  the  spoil  and  the  good  store  of  provisions 
which  they  found  in  that  place,  fell  to  eating  and  drink- 
ing, forgetful  of  their  safety,  till  the  Cicons,  who  inhabited 
the  coast,  had  time  to  assemble  their  friends  and  allies 
from  the  interior,  who  mustering  in  prodigious  force,  set 

1  The  translation  of  Homer  by  Chapman  in  the  reign  of  James  I. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  .         91 

upon  the  Grecians,  while  they  negligently  revelled  and 
feasted,  and  slew  many  of  them  and  recovered  the  spoil. 
They,  dispirited  and  thinned  in  their  numbers,  with 
difficulty  made  their  retreat  good  to  the  ships. 

Thence  they  set  sail,  sad  at  heart,  yet  something 
cheered  that  with  such  fearful  odds  against  them  they 
had  not  all  been  utterly  destroyed.  A  dreadful  tempest 
ensued,  which  for  two  nights  and  two  days  tossed  them 
about,  but  the  third  day  the  weather  cleared,  and  they 
had  hopes  of  a  favourable  gale  to  carry  them  to  Ithaca ; 
but  as  they  doubled  the  Cape  of  Malea,  suddenly  a  north 
wind  arising,  drove  them  back  as  far  as  Cythera.  After 
that,  for  the  space  of  nine  days,  contrary  winds  continued 
to  drive  them  in  an  opposite  direction  to  the  point  to 
which  they  were  bound,  and  the  tenth  day  they  put  in 
at  a  shore  where  a  race  of  men  dwell  that  are  sustained 
by  the  fruit  of  the  lotos-tree.  Here  Ulysses  sent  some 
of  his  men  to  land  for  fresh  water,  who  were  met  by 
certain  of  the  inhabitants,  that  gave  them  some  of  their 
country  food  to  eat ;  not  with  any  ill  intention  towards 
them,  though  in  the  event  it  proved  pernicious ;  for, 
having  eaten  of  this  fruit,  so  pleasant  it  proved  to  their 
appetite,  that  they  in  a  minute  quite  forgot  all  thoughts 
of  home,  or  of  their  countrymen,  or  of  ever  returning 
back  to  the  ships  to  give  an  account  of  what  sort  of  in- 
habitants dwelt  there,  but  they  would  needs  stay  and 
live  there  among  them,  and  eat  of  that  precious  food  for 
ever ;  and  when  Ulysses  sent  other  of  his  men  to  look 
for  them,  and  to  bring  them  back  by  force,  they  strove, 
and  wept,  and  would  not  leave  their  food  for  heaven 
itself,  so  much  the  pleasure  of  that  enchanting  fruit  had 
bewitched  them.  But  Ulysses  caused  them  to  be  bound 
hand  and  foot,  and  cast  under  the  hatches ;  and  set  sail 
with  all  possible  speed  from  that  baneful  coast,  lest  others 
after  them  might  taste  the  lotos,  which  had  such  strange 
qualities  to  make  men  forget  their  native  country  and 
the  thoughts  of  home. 

Coasting  on  all  that  night  by  unknown  and  out  of  the 


92  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

way  shores,  they  came  by  day-break  to  the  land  where 
the  Cyclops  dwell,  a  sort  of  giant  shepherds  that  neither 
sow  nor  plough,  but  the  earth  untilled  produces  for  them 
rich  wheat  and  barley  and  grapes,  yet  they  have  neither 
bread  nor  wine,  nor  know  the  arts  of  cultivation,  nor 
care  to  know  them ;  for  tliey  live  each  man  to  himself, 
without  laws  or  government,  or  anything  like  a  state  or 
kingdom,  but  their  dwellings  are  in  caves,  on  the  steep 
heads  of  mountains,  every  man's  household  governed  by 
his  own  caprice,  or  not  governed  at  all,  their  wives  and 
children  as  lawless  as  themselves,  none  caring  for  others, 
but  each  doing  as  he  or  she  thinks  good.  Ships  or  boats 
they  have  none,  nor  artificers  to  make  them,  no  trade  or 
commerce,  or  wish  to  visit  other  shores ;  yet  they  have 
convenient  places  for  harbours  and  for  shipping.  Here 
Ulysses  with  a  chosen  party  of  twelve  followers  landed, 
to  explore  what  sort  of  men  dwelt  there,  whether  hos- 
pitable and  friendly  to  strangers,  or  altogether  wild  and 
savage,  for  as  yet  no  dwellers  appeared  in  sight. 

The  first  sign  of  habitation  which  they  came  to  was  a 
giant's  cave  rudely  fashioned,  but  of  a  size  which  be- 
tokened the  vast  proportions  of  its  owner,  the  pillars 
which  supported  it  being  the  bodies  of  huge  oaks  or  pines, 
in  the  natural  state  of  the  tree,  and  all  about  showed 
more  marks  of  strength  than  skill  in  whoever  built  it. 
Ulysses,  entering  in,  admired  the  savage  contrivances  and 
artless  structure  of  the  place,  and  longed  to  see  the  tenant 
of  so  outlandish  a  mansion ;  but  well  conjecturing  that 
gifts  would  have  more  avail  in  extracting  courtesy  than 
strength  could  succeed  in  forcing  it,  from  such  a  one  as 
he  expected  to  find  the  inhabitant,  he  resolved  to  flatter 
his  hospitality  with  a  present  of  Greek  wine,  of  which  he 
had  store  in  twelve  great  vessels ;  so  strong  that  no  one 
ever  drank  it  without  an  infusion  of  twenty  parts  of  water 
to  one  of  wine,  yet  the  fragrance  of  it  even  then  so 
delicious,  that  it  would  have  vexed  a  man  who  smelled 
it  to  abstain  from  tasting  it ;  but  whoever  tasted  it,  it 
was  able  to  raise  his  courage  to  the  height  of  heroic  deeds. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  93 

Taking  with  them  a  goatskin  flagon  full  of  this  precious 
liquor,  they  ventured  into  the  recesses  of  the  cave.  Here 
they  pleased  themselves  a  whole  day  with  beholding  the 
giant's  kitchen,  where  the  flesh  of  sheep  and  goats  lay 
strewed,  his  dairy  where  goat-milk  stood  ranged  in  troughs 
and  pails,  his  pens  where  he  kept  his  live  animals ;  but 
those  he  had  driven  forth  to  pasture  with  him  when  he 
went  out  in  the  morning.  While  they  were  feasting 
their  eyes  with  a  sight  of  these  curiosities,  their  ears  were 
suddenly  deafened  with  a  noise  like  the  falling  of  a  house. 
It  was  the  owner  of  the  cave  who  had  been  abroad  all 
day  feeding  his  flock,  as  his  custom  was,  in  the  mountains, 
and  now  drove  them  home  in  the  evening  from  pasture. 
He  threw  down  a  pile  of  fire-wood,  which  he  had  been 
gathering  against  supper-time,  before  the  mouth  of  the 
cave,  which  occasioned  the  crash  they  heard.  The 
Grecians  hid  themselves  in  the  remote  parts  of  the  cave, 
at  sight  of  the  uncouth  monster.  It  was  Polyphemus, 
the  largest  and  savagest  of  the  Cyclops,  who  boasted  him- 
self to  be  the  son  of  Neptune.  He  looked  more  like  a 
mountain  crag  than  a  man,  and  to  his  brutal  body  he  had 
a  brutish  mind  answerable.  He  drove  his  flock,  all  that 
gave  milk,  to  the  interior  of  the  cave,  but  left  the  rams 
and  the  he-goats  without.  Then  taking  up  a  stone  so 
massy  that  twenty  oxen  could  not  have  drawn  it,  he 
placed  it  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  to  defend  the  entrance, 
and  sat  him  down  to  milk  his  ewes  and  his  goats ;  which 
done,  he  lastly  kindled  a  fire,  and  throwing  his  great  eye 
round  the  cave  (for  the  Cyclops  have  no  more  than  one 
eye,  and  that  placed  in  the  midst  of  their  forehead), 
by  the  glimmering  light  he  discerned  some  of  Ulysses' 
men. 

"  Ho,  guests,  what  are  you  1  merchants  or  wandering 
thieves  1 "  he  bellowed  out  in  a  voice  which  took  from 
them  all  power  of  reply,  it  was  so  astounding. 

Only  Ulysses  summoned  resolution  to  answer,  that 
they  came  neither  for  plunder  nor  traffic,  but  were 
Grecians  who  had  lost  their  way,  returning  from  Troy ; 


94  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

which  famous  city,  under  the  conduct  of  Agamemnon,  the 
renowned  son  of  Atreus,  they  had  sacked,  and  laid  level 
with  the  ground.  Yet  now  they  prostrated  themselves 
humbly  before  his  feet,  whom  they  acknowledged  to  be 
mightier  than  they,  and  besought  him  that  he  would 
bestow  the  rites  of  hospitality  upon  them,  for  that  Jove 
was  the  avenger  of  wrongs  done  to  strangers,  and  would 
fiercely  resent  any  injury  which  they  might  suffer. 

"  Fool,"  said  the  Cyclop,  "  to  come  so  far  to  preach  to 
me  the  fear  of  the  gods.  We  Cyclops  care  not  for  your 
Jove,  whom  you  fable  to  be  nursed  by  a  goat,  nor  any  of 
your  blessed  ones.  We  are  stronger  than  they,  and  dare 
bid  open  battle  to  Jove  himself,  though  you  and  all  your 
fellows  of  the  earth  join  with  him."  And  he  bade  them 
tell  him  where  their  ship  was,  in  which  they  came,  and 
whether  they  had  any  companions.  But  Ulysses,  with  a 
wise  caution,  made  answer,  that  they  had  no  ship  or  com- 
panions, but  were  unfortunate  men  whom  the  sea,  splitting 
their  ship  in  pieces,  had  dashed  upon  his  coast,  and  they 
alone  had  escaped.  He  replied  nothing,  but  gripping  two 
of  the  nearest  of  them,  as  if  they  had  been  no  more  than 
children,  he  dashed  their  brains  out  against  the  earth,  and 
(shocking  to  relate)  tore  in  pieces  their  limbs,  and  devoured 
them,  yet  warm  and  trembling,  making  a  lion's  meal  of 
them,  lapping  the  blood  :  for  the  Cyclops  are  man-eaters, 
and  esteem  human  flesh  to  be  a  delicacy  far  above  goat's 
or  kid's ;  though  by  reason  of  their  abhorred  customs 
few  men  approach  their  coast  except  some  stragglers,  or 
now  and  then  a  shipwrecked  mariner.  At  a  sight  so 
horrid  Ulysses  and  his  men  were  like  distracted  people. 
He,  when  he  had  made  an  end  of  his  wicked  supper, 
drained  a  draught  of  goat's  milk  down  his  prodigious 
throat,  and  lay  down  and  slept  among  his  goats.  Then 
Ulysses  drew  his  sword,  and  half  resolved  to  thrust  it 
with  all  his  might  in  at  the  bosom  of  the  sleeping  monster ; 
but  wiser  thoughts  restrained  him,  else  they  had  there 
without  help  all  perished,  for  none  but  Polyphemus  him- 
self could  have  removed  that  mass  of  stone  which  he  had 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  95 

placed  to  guard  the  entrance.     So  they  were  constrained 
to  abide  all  that  night  in  fear. 

When  day  caine  the  Cyclop  awoke,  and  kindling  a 
fire,  made  his  breakfast  of  two  other  of  his  unfortunate 
prisoners,  then  milked  his  goats  as  he  was  accustomed, 
and  pushing  aside  the  vast  stone,  and  shutting  it  again 
when  he  had  done,  upon  the  prisoners,  with  as  much  ease 
as  a  man  opens  and  shuts  a  quiver's  lid,  he  let  out  his 
flock,  and  drove  them  before  him  with  whistlings  (as 
sharp  as  winds  in  storms)  to  the  mountains. 

Then  Ulysses,  of  whose  strength  or  cunning  the  Cyclop 
seems  to  have  had  as  little  heed  as  of  an  infant's,  being 
left  alone,  with  the  remnant  of  his  men  which  the  Cyclop 
had  not  devoured,  gave  manifest  proof  how  far  manly 
wisdom  excels  brutish  force.  He  chose  a  stake  from 
among  the  wood  which  the  Cyclop  had  piled  up  for 
firing,  in  length  and  thickness  like  a  mast,  which  he 
sharpened  and  hardened  in  the  fire,  and  selected  four 
men,  and  instructed  them  what  they  should  do  with  this 
stake,  and  made  them  perfect  in  their  parts. 

When  the  evening  was  come,  the  Cyclop  drove  home 
his  sheep  ;  and  as  fortune  directed  it,  either  of  purpose, 
or  that  his  memory  was  overruled  by  the  gods  to  his  hurt 
(as  in  the  issue  it  proved),  he  drove  the  males  of  his  flock, 
contrary  to  his  custom,  along  with  the  dams  into  the 
pens.  Then  shutting-to  the  stone  of  the  cave,  he  fell  to 
his  horrible  supper.  When  he  had  despatched  two  more 
of  the  Grecians,  Ulysses  waxed  bold  with  the  contempla- 
tion of  Ins  project,  and  took  a  bowl  of  Greek  wine,  and 
merrily  dared  the  Cyclop  to  drink. 

"  Cyclop,"  he  said,  "  take  a  bowl  of  wine  from  the 
hand  of  your  guest;  it  may  serve  to  digest  the  man's 
flesh  that  you  have  eaten,  and  show  what  drink  our  ship 
held  before  it  went  down.  All  I  ask  in  recompense,  if 
you  find  it  good,  is  to  be  dismissed  in  a  whole  skin. 
Truly  you  must  look  to  have  few  visitors,  if  you  observe 
this  new  custom  of  eating  your  guests." 

The  brute  took  and  drank,  and  vehemently  enjoyed 


96  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

the  taste  of  wine,  which  was  new  to  him,  and  swilled 
again  at  the  flagon,  and  entreated  for  more,  and  prayed 
Ulysses  to  tell  him  his  name,  that  he  might  bestow  a 
gift  upon  the  man  who  had  given  him  such  brave  liquor. 
The  Cyclops  (he  said)  had  grapes,  but  this  rich  juice  (he 
swore)  was  simply  divine.  Again  Ulysses  plied  him  with 
the  wine,  and  the  fool  drank  it  as  fast  as  he  poured  out, 
and  again  he  asked  the  name  of  his  benefactor,  which 
Ulysses  cunningly  dissembling,  said  :  "  My  name  is  No- 
man  ;  my  kindred  and  friends  in  my  own  country  call 
me  Noman."  "Then,"  said  the  Cyclop,  "this  is  the 
kindness  I  will  show  thee,  Noman ;  I  will  eat  thee  last 
of  all  thy  friends."  He  had  scarce  expressed  his  savage 
kindness  when  the  fumes  of  the  strong  wine  overcame 
him,  and  he  reeled  down  upon  the  floor  and  sank  into  a 
dead  sleep. 

Ulysses  watched  his  time,  while  the  monster  lay  in- 
sensible, and  heartening  up  his  men,  they  placed  the  sharp 
end  of  the  stake  in  the  fire  till  it  was  heated  red-hot,  and 
some  god  gave  them  a  courage  beyond  that  which  they 
were  used  to  have,  and  the  four  men  with  difficulty  bored 
the  sharp  end  of  the  huge  stake,  which  they  had  heated 
red-hot,  right  into  the  eye  of  the  drunken  cannibal,  and 
Ulysses  helped  to  thrust  ii  in  with  all  his  might,  still 
farther  and  farther,  with  effort,  as  men  bore  with  an 
augur,  till  the  scalded  blood  gushed  out,  and  the  eye -ball 
smoked,  and  the  strings  of  the  eye  cracked,  as  the  burn- 
ing rafter  broke  in  it,  and  the  eye  hissed,  as  hot  iron 
hisses  when  it  is  plunged  into  water. 

He  waking,  roared  with  the  pain  so  loud  that  all  the 
cavern  broke  into  claps  like  thunder.  They  fled,  and 
dispersed  into  corners.  He  plucked  the  burning  stake 
from  his  eye,  and  hurled  the  wood  madly  about  the  cave. 
Then  he  cried  out  with  a  mighty  voice  for  his  brethren 
the  Cyclops,  that  dwelt  hard  by  in  caverns  upon  hills ; 
they  hearing  the  terrible  shout  came  flocking  from  all 
parts  to  inquire  what  ailed  Polyphemus  ?  and  what  cause 
he  had  for  making  such  horrid  clamours  in  the  night-time 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  97 

to  break  their  sleeps  1  if  his  fright  proceeded  from  any 
mortal  1  if  strength  or  craft  had  given  him  his  death's 
Mow?  He  made  answer  from  within  that  Xoman  had 
hurt  him,  Nomau  had  killed  him,  Noman  was  with  him 
in  the  cave.  They  replied,  "If  no  man  has  hurt  thee, 
and  no  man  is  with  thee,  then  thou  art  alone,  and  the 
evil  that  afflicts  thee  is  from  the  hand  of  heaven,  which 
none  can  resist  or  help."  So  they  left  him  and  went 
their  way,  thinking  that  some  disease  troubled  him.  He, 
blind  and  ready  to  split  with  the  anguish  of  the  pain, 
went  groaning  up  and  down  in  the  dark,  to  find  the  door- 
way, which  when  he  found,  he  removed  the  stone,  and 
sat  in  the  threshold,  feeling  if  he  could  lay  hold  on  auy 
man  going  out  with  the  sheep,  which  (the  day  now 
breaking)  were  beginning  to  issue  forth  to  their  accus- 
tomed pastures.  But  Ulysses,  whose  first  artifice  in 
giving  himself  that  ambiguous  name,  had  succeeded  so 
well  with  the  Cyclop,  was  not  of  a  wit  so  gross  to  be 
caught  by  that  palpable  device.  But  casting  about  in 
his  mind  all  the  ways  which  he  could  contrive  for  escape 
(no  less  than  all  their  lives  depending  on  the  success), 
at  last  he  thought  of  this  expedient.  He  made  knots  of 
the  osier  twigs  upon  which  the  Cyclop  commonly  slept, 
with  which  he  tied  the  fattest  and  fleeciest  of  the  rams 
together,  three  in  a  rank,  and  under  the  belly  of  the 
middle  ram  he  tied  a  man,  and  himself  last,  wrapping 
himself  fast  with  both  his  hands  in  the  rich  wool  of  one, 
the  fairest  of  the  flock. 

And  now  the  sheep  began  to  issue  forth  very  fast ; 
the  males  went  first,  the  females  unmilked  stood  by, 
bleating  and  requiring  the  hand  of  their  shepherd  in  vain 
to  milk  them,  their  full  bags  sore  with  being  unemptied, 
but  he  much  sorer  with  the  loss  of  sight.  Still  as  the 
males  passed,  he  felt  the  backs  of  those  fleecy  fools,  never 
dreaming  that  they  carried  his  enemies  under  their  bellies : 
so  they  passed  on  till  the  last  ram  came  loaded  with  his 
wool  and  Ulysses  together.  He  stopped  that  ram  and 
felt  him,  and  had  his  hand  once  in  the  hair  of  Ulysses, 

H 


98  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

yet  knew  it  not,  and  he  chid  the  ram  for  being  last,  and 
spoke  to  it  as  if  it  understood  him,  and  asked  it  whether 
it  did  not  wish  that  its  master  had  his  eye  again,  which 
that  abominable  Noman  with  his  execrable  rout  had  put 
out,  when  they  had  got  him  down  with  wine ;  and  he 
willed  the  ram  to  tell  him  whereabouts  in  the  cave  his 
enemy  lurked,  that  he  might  dash  his  brains  and  strew 
them  about,  to  ease  his  heart  of  that  tormenting  revenge 
which  rankled  in  it.  After  a  deal  of  such  foolish  talk  to 
the  beast  he  let  it  go. 

When  Ulysses  found  himself  free,  he  let  go  his  hold, 
and  assisted  in  disengaging  his  friends.  The  rams  which 
had  befriended  them  they  carried  off  with  them  to  the 
ships,  where  their  companions  with  tears  in  their  eyes 
received  them,  as  men  escaped  from  death.  They  plied 
their  oars,  and  set  their  sails,  and  when  they  were  got  as 
far  off  from  shore  as  a  voice  would  reach,  Ulysses  cried 
out  to  the  Cyclop  :  "Cyclop,  thou  should'st  not  have  so 
much  abused  thy  monstrous  strength,  as  to  devour  thy 
guests.  Jove  by  my  hand  sends  thee  requital  to  pay  thy 
savage  inhumanity."  The  Cyclop  heard,  and  came  forth 
enraged,  and  in  his  anger  he  plucked  a  fragment  of  a 
rock,  and  threw  it  with  blind  fuiy  at  the  ships :  it  nar- 
rowly escaped  lighting  upon  the  bark  in  which  Ulysses 
sat,  but  with  the  fall  it  raised  so  fierce  an  ebb,  as  bore 
back  the  ship  till  it  almost  touched  the  shore.  "  Cyclop," 
said  Ulysses,  "  if  any  ask  thee  who  imposed  on  thee  that 
unsightly  blemish  in  thine  eye,  say  it  was  Ulysses,  son  of 
Laertes :  the  king  of  Ithaca  am  I  called,  the  waster  of 
cities."  Then  they  crowded  sail,  and  beat  the  old  sea, 
and  forth  they  went  with  a  forward  gale ;  sad  for  fore- 
past  losses,  yet  glad  to  have  escaped  at  any  rate ;  till 
they  came  to  the  isle  where  ^Eolus  reigned,  who  is  god 
of  the  winds. 

Here  Ulysses  and  his  men  were  courteously  received 
by  the  monarch,  who  showed  him  his  twelve  children 
which  have  rule  over  the  twelve  winds.  A  month  they 
stayed  and  feasted  with  him,  and  at  the  end  of  the  month 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  99 

he  dismissed  them  with  many  presents,  and  gave  to 
Ulysses  at  parting  an  ox's  hide,  in  which  were  enclosed 
all  the  winds :  only  he  left  abroad  the  western  wind,  to 
play  upon  their  sails  and  waft  them  gently  home  to 
Ithaca.  This  bag,  bound  in  a  glittering  silver  band,  so 
close  that  no  breath  could  escape,  Ulysses  hung  up  at 
the  mast.  His  companions  did  not  know  its  contents, 
but  guessed  that  the  monarch  had  given  to  him  some 
treasures  of  gold  or  silver. 

Nine  days  they  sailed  smoothly,  favoured  by  the 
western  wind,  and  by  the  tenth  they  approached  so  nigh 
as  to  discern  lights  kindled  on  the  shores  of  their  country 
earth ;  when,  by  ill  fortune,  Ulysses,  overcome  with 
fatigue  of  watching  the  helm,  fell  asleep.  The  mariners 
seized  the  opportunity,  and  one  of  them  said  to  the  rest : 
"  A  fine  time  has  this  leader  of  ours :  wherever  he  goes 
he  is  sure  of  presents,  when  we  come  away  empty-handed ; 
and  see,  what  king  JEolus  has  given  him,  store  no  doubt 
of  gold  and  silver."  A  word  was  enough  to  those  covetous 
wretches,  who  quick  as  thought  untied  the  bag,  and  in- 
stead of  gold,  out  rushed  with  mighty  noise  all  tJie  winds. 
Ulysses  with  the  noise  awoke  and  saw  their  mistake, 
but  too  late,  for  the  ship  was  driving  with  all  the  winds 
back  far  from  Ithaca,  far  as  to  the  island  of  _<Eolus  from 
which  they  had  parted,  in  one  hour  measuring  back  what 
in  nine  days  they  had  scarcely  tracked,  and  in  sight  of 
home  too !  Up  he  flew  amazed,  and  raving  doubted 
whether  he  should  not  fling  himself  into  the  sea  for  grief 
of  his  bitter  disappointment.  At  last  he  hid  himself 
under  the  hatches  for  shame.  And  scarce  could  he  be 
prevailed  upon,  when  he  was  told  he  was  arrived  again 
in  the  harbour  of  king  JEolus,  to  go  himself  or  send  to 
tliat  monarch  for  a  second  succour ;  so  much  the  disgrace 
of  having  misused  his  royal  bounty  (though  it  was  the 
crime  of  his  followers  and  not  his  own)  weighed  upon 
him  :  and  when  at  last  he  went,  and  took  a  herald  with 
him,  and  came  where  the  god  sac  on  his  throne,  feasting 
with  his  children,  he  would  not  trust  in  among  them  at 


100  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

their  meat,  but  set  himself  down  like  one  unworthy  in 
the  threshold. 

Indignation  seized  ^Eolus  to  behold  him  in  that 
manner  returned ;  and  he  said :  "  Ulysses,  what  has 
brought  you  back  1  are  you  so  soon  tired  of  your  country  1 
or  did  not  our  present  please  you  1  we  thought  we  had 
given  you  a  kingly  passport."  Ulysses  made  answer : 
"  My  men  have  done  this  ill  mischief  to  me  :  they  did  it 
while  I  slept."  "Wretch,"  said  ^Eolus,  "avaunt,  and 
quit  our  shores :  it  fits  not  us  to  convoy  men  whom  the 
gods  hate,  and  will  have  perish." 

Forth  they  sailed,  but  with  far  different  hopes  than 
when  they  left  the  same  harbour  the  first  time  with  all 
the  winds  confined,  only  the  west-wind  suffered  to  play 
upon  their  sails  to  waft  them  in  gentle  murmurs  to 
Ithaca.  They  were  now  the  sport  of  every  gale  that 
blew,  and  despaired  of  ever  seeing  home  more.  Now 
those  covetous  mariners  were  cured  of  their  surfeit  for 
gold,  and  would  not  have  touched  it  if  it  had  lain  in  un- 
told heaps  before  them. 

Six  days  and  nights  they  drove  along,  and  on  the 
seventh  day  they  put  in  to  Lamos,  a  port  of  the  Laestry- 
gonians.  So  spacious  this  harbour  was,  that  it  held  with 
ease  all  their  fleet,  which  rode  at  anchor,  safe  from  any 
storms,  all  but  the  ship  in  which  Ulysses  was  embarked. 
He,  as  if  prophetic  of  the  mischance  which  followed,  kept 
still  without  the  harbour,  making  fast  his  bark  to  a  rock 
at  the  land's  point,  which  he  climbed  with  purpose  to 
survey  the  country.  He  saw  a  city  with  smoke  ascending 
from  the  roofs,  but  neither  ploughs  going,  nor  oxen  yoked, 
nor  any  sign  of  agricultural  works.  Making  choice  of 
two  men,  he  sent  them  to  the  city  to  explore  what  sort 
of  inhabitants  dwelt  there.  His  messengers  had  not  gone 
far  before  they  met  a  damsel,  of  stature  surpassing  human, 
who  was  coming  to  draw  water  from  a  spring.  They 
asked  her  who  dwelt  in  that  land.  She  made  no  reply, 
but  led  them  in  silence  to  her  father's  palace.  He  was 
a  monarch  and  named  Antiphas.  He  and  all  his  people 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  101 

were  giants.  When  they  entered  the  palace,  a  woman, 
the  mother  of  the  damsel,  but  far  taller  than  she,  rushed 
abroad  and  called  for  Antiphas.  He  came,  and  snatching 
up  one  of  the  two  men,  made  as  if  he  would  devour  him. 
The  other  fled.  Antiphas  raised  a  mighty  shout,  and 
instantly,  this  way  and  that,  multitudes  of  gigantic  people 
issued  out  at  the  gates,  and  making  for  the  harbour,  tore 
up  huge  pieces  of  the  rocks,  and  flung  them  at  the  ships 
which  lay  there,  all  which  they  utterly  overwhelmed  and 
sank ;  and  the  unfortunate  bodies  of  men  which  floated, 
and  which  the  sea  did  not  devour,  these  cannibals  thrust 
through  with  harpoons,  like  fishes,  and  bore  them  off  to 
their  dire  feast.  Ulysses  with  his  single  bark  that  had 
never  entered  the  harbour  escaped ;  that  bark  which  was 
now  the  only  vessel  left  of  all  the  gallant  navy  that  had 
set  sail  with  him  from  Troy.  He  pushed  off  from  the 
shore,  cheering  the  sad  remnant  of  his  men,  whom  horror 
at  the  sight  of  their  countrymen's  fate  had  almost  turned 
to  marble. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  house  of  Circe  —  Men  changed  into  beasts  —  The  voyage  to  hell 
—  The  banquet  of  the  dead. 


Ox  went  the  single  ship  till  it  came  to  the  island 
where  Circe  the  dreadful  daughter  of  the  Sun  dwelt. 
She  was  deeply  skilled  in  magic,  a  haughty  beauty,  and 
had  hair  like  the  Sun.  The  Sun  was  her  parent,  and 
begot  her  and  her  brother  JLetes  (such  another  as  her- 
self) upon  Perse,  daughter  to  Oceanus. 

Here  a  dispute  arose  among  Ulysses'  men,  which  of 
them  should  go  ashore  and  explore  the  country  ;  for  there 
was  a  necessity  that  some  should  go  to  procure  water  and 
provisions,  their  stock  of  both  being  nigh  spent  :  but 
their  hearts  failed  them  when  they  called  to  mind  the 
shocking  fate  of  their  fellows  whom  the  Lsestrygonians 
had  eaten,  and  those  which  the  foul  Cyclop  Polyphemus 


102  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

had  crushed  between  his  jaws ;  which  moved  them  so 
tenderly  in  the  recollection  that  they  wept.  But  tears 
never  yet  supplied  any  man's  wants  ;  this  Ulysses  knew 
full  well,  and  dividing  his  men  (all  that  were  left)  into 
two  companies,  at  the  head  of  one  of  which  was  himself, 
and  at  the  head  of  the  other  Eurylochus,  a  man  of  tried 
courage,  he  cast  lots  which  of  them  should  go  up  into  the 
country,  and  the  lot  fell  upon  Eurylochus  and  his  com- 
pany, two  and  twenty  in  number ;  who  took  their  leave, 
with  tears,  of  Ulysses  and  his  men  that  stayed,  whose 
eyes  wore  the  same  wet  badges  of  weak  humanity,  for  they 
surely  thought  never  to  see  these  their  companions  again, 
but  that  on  every  coast  where  they  should  come,  they 
should  find  nothing  but  savages  and  cannibals. 

Eurylochus  and  his  party  proceeded  up  the  country, 
till  in  a  dale  they  descried  the  house  of  Circe,  built  of 
bright  stone,  by  the  road's  side.  Before  her  gate  lay 
many  beasts,  as  wolves,  lions,  leopards,  which,  by  her  art, 
of  wild  she  had  rendered  tame.  These  arose  when  they 
saw  strangers,  and  ramped  upon  their  hinder  paws,  and 
fawned  upon  Eurylochus  and  his  men,  who  dreaded  the 
effects  of  such  monstrous  kindness ;  and  staying  at  the 
gate  they  heard  the  enchantress  within,  sitting  at  her 
loom,  singing  such  strains  as  suspended  all  mortal  faculties, 
while  she  wove  a  web,  subtle  and  glorious,  and  of  texture 
inimitable  on  earth,  as  all  the  housewiferies  of  the  deities 
are.  Strains  so  ravishingly  sweet,  provoked  even  the 
sagest  and  prudentest  heads  among  the  party  to  knock 
and  call  at  the  gate.  The  shining  gate  the  enchantress 
opened,  and  bade  them  come  in  and  feast.  They  unwise 
followed,  all  but  Eurylochus,  who  stayed  without  the 
gate,  suspicious  that  some  train  was  laid  for  them.  Being 
entered,  she  placed  them  in  chairs  of  state,  and  set  before 
them  meal  and  honey,  and  Smyrna  wine ;  but  mixed  with 
baneful  drugs  of  powerful  enchantment.  When  they  had 
eaten  of  these,  and  drunk  of  her  cup,  she  touched  them 
with  her  charming-rod,  and  straight  they  were  transformed 
into  swine,  having  the  bodies  of  swine,  the  bristles,  and 


THE  ADVENTURES  OP  ULYSSES.  103 

snout,  and  grunting  noise  of  that  animal ;  only  they 
still  retained  the  minds  of  men,  which  made  them  the 
more  to  lament  their  brutish  transformation.  Having 
changed  them,  she  shut  them  up  in  her  sty  with  many 
more  whom  her  wicked  sorceries  had  formerly  changed, 
and  gave  them  swine's  food,  mast,  and  acorns,  and  chest- 
nuts, to  eat. 

Eurylochus,  who  beheld  nothing  of  these  sad  changes 
from  where  he  was  stationed  without  the  gate,  only 
instead  of  his  companions  that  entered  (who  he  thought 
had  all  vanished  by  witchcraft)  beheld  a  herd  of  swine, 
hurried  back  to  the  ship,  to  give  an  account  of  what  he 
had  seen  :  but  so  frightened  and  perplexed,  that  he  could 
give  no  distinct  report  of  anything,  only  he  remembered 
a  palace,  and  a  woman  singing  at  her  work,  and  gates 
guarded  by  lions.  But  his  companions,  he  said,  were  all 
vanished. 

Then  Ulysses  suspecting  some  foul  witchcraft,  snatched 
his  sword,  and  his  bo\v,  and  commanded  Eurylochus  in- 
stantly to  lead  him  to  the  place.  But  Eurylochus  fell 
down,  and  embracing  his  knees,  besought  him  by  the 
name  of  a  man  whom  the  gods  had  in  their  protection, 
not  to  expose  his  safety,  and  the  safety  of  them  all,  to 
certain  destruction. 

"  Do  thou  then  stay,  Eurylochus  ! "  answered  Ulysses  : 
"  eat  thou  and  drink  in  the  ship  in  safety ;  while  I  go 
alone  upon  this  adventure :  necessity,  from  whose  law  is 
no  appeal,  compels  me." 

So  saying  he  quitted  the  ship  and  went  on  shore, 
accompanied  by  none  ;  none  had  the  hardihood  to  offer  to 
partake  that  perilous  adventure  with  him,  so  much  they 
dreaded  the  enchantments  of  the  witch.  Singly  he  pur- 
sued his  journey  till  he  came  to  the  shining  gates  which 
stood  before  her  mansion :  but  when  he  essayed  to  put 
his  foot  over  her  threshold,  he  was  suddenly  stopped  by 
the  apparition  of  a  young  man,  bearing  a  golden  rod  in 
his  hand,  who  was  the  god  Mercury.  He  held  Ulysses 
by  the  wrist,  to  stay  his  entrance;  and  "  Whither  wouldest 


104       THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

them  go?"  he  said;  "0,  thou  most  erring  of  the  sons  of 
men !  knowest  thou  not  that  this  is  the  house  of  great 
Circe,  where  she  keeps  thy  friends  in  a  loathsome  sty, 
changed  from  the  fair  forms  of  men  into  the  detestable 
and  ugly  shapes  of  swine  1  art  thou  prepared  to  share 
their  fate,  from  which  nothing  can  ransom  thee  V  But 
neither  his  words,  nor  his  coming  from  heaven,  could  stop 
the  daring  foot  of  Ulysses,  whom  compassion  for  the  mis- 
fortune of  his  friends  had  rendered  careless  of  danger: 
which  when  the  god  perceived,  he  had  pity  to  see  valour 
so  misplaced,  and  gave  him  the  flower  of  the  herb  moly, 
which  is  sovereign  against  enchantments.  The  moly  is  a 
small  unsightly  root,  its  virtues  but  little  known,  and  in 
low  estimation ;  the  dull  shepherd  treads  on  it  every  day 
with  his  clouted  shoes  ;  but  it  bears  a  small  white  flower, 
which  is  medicinal  against  charms,  blights,  mildews,  and 
damps. — "  Take  this  in  thy  hand,"  said  Mercury,  "  and 
witli  it  boldly  enter  her  gates  :  when  she  shall  strike  thee 
with  her  rod,  thinking  to  change  thee,  as  she  has  changed 
thy  friends,  boldly  rush  in  upon  her  with  thy  sword,  and 
extort  from  her  the  dreadful  oath  of  the  gods,  that  she 
will  use  no  enchantments  against  thee  :  then  force  her  to 
restore  thy  abused  companions."  He  gave  Ulysses  the 
little  white  flower,  and  instructing  him  how  to  use  it, 
vanished. 

When  the  god  was  departed,  Ulysses  with  loud  knock- 
ings  beat  at  the  gate  of  the  palace.  The  shining  gates 
were  opened,  as  before,  and  great  Circe  with  hospitable 
cheer  invited  in  her  guest.  She  placed  him  on  a  throne 
with  more  distinction  than  she  had  used  to  his  fellows, 
she  mingled  wine  in  a  costly  bowl,  and  he  drank  of  it, 
mixed  with  those  poisonous  drugs.  When  he  had  drunk, 
she  struck  him  with  her  charming-rod,  and  "To  your 
sty,"  she  cried ;  "  out,  swine ;  mingle  with  your  com- 
panions." But  those  powerful  words  were  not  proof 
against  the  preservative  which  Mercury  had  given  to 
Ulysses ;  he  remained  unchanged,  and  as  the  god  had 
directed  him,  boldly  charged  the  witch  with  his  sword, 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  105 

as  if  he  meant  to  take  her  life :  which  when  she  saw, 
and  perceived  that  her  charms  were  weak  against  the 
antidote  which  Ulysses  bore  about  him,  she  cried  out  and 
bent  her  knees  beneath  his  sword,  embracing  his,  and 
said,  "  Who  or  what  manner  of  man  art  thou  ?  Never 
drank  any  man  before  thee  of  this  cup,  but  he  repented 
it  in  some  brute's  form.  Thy  shape  remains  unaltered  as 
thy  mind.  Thou  canst  be  none  other  than  Ulysses, 
renowned  above  all  the  world  for  wisdom,  whom  the  fates 
have  long  since  decreed  that  I  must  love.  This  haughty 
bosom  bends  to  thee.  O  Ithacan,  a  goddess  woos  thee 
to  her  bed." 

"0  Circe,"  he  replied,  "how  canst  thou  treat  of  love 
or  marriage  with  one  whose  friends  thou  hast  turned  into 
beasts  ?  and  now  offerest  him  thy  hand  in  wedlock,  only 
that  thou  mightest  have  him  in  thy  power,  to  live  the 
life  of  a  beast  with  thee,  naked,  effeminate,  subject  to  thy 
will,  perhaps  to  be  advanced  in  time  to  the  honour  of  a 
place  in  thy  sty.  What  pleasure  canst  thou  promise, 
which  may  tempt  the  soul  of  a  reasonable  man  1  thy 
meats,  spiced  with  poison ;  or  thy  wines,  dnigged  with 
death  1  Thou  must  swear  to  me,  that  thou  wilt  never 
attempt  against  me.tbe  treasons  which  thou  hast  practised 
upon  my  friends."  The  enchantress,  won  by  the  terror 
of  his  threats,  or  by  the  violence  of  that  new  love  which 
she  felt  kindling  in  her  veins  for  him,  swore  by  Styx, 
the  great  oath  of  the  gods,  that  she  meditated  no  injury 
to  him.  Then  Ulysses  made  show  of  gentler  treatment, 
which  gave  her  hopes  of  inspiring  him  with  a  passion 
equal  to  that  which  she  felt.  She  called  her  handmaids, 
four  that  served  her  in  chief,  who  were  daughters  to  her 
silver  fountains,  to  her  sabred  rivers,  and  to  her  conse- 
crated woods,  to  deck  her  apartments,  to  spread  rich 
carpets,  and  set  out  her  silver  tables  with  dishes  of  the 
purest  gold,  and  meat  as  precious  as  that  which  the  gods 
eat,  to  entertain  her  guest.  One  brought  water  to  wash 
his  feet,  and  one  brought  wine  to  chase  away,  with  a 
refreshing  sweetness,  the  sorrows  that  had  come  of  late 


106  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

so  thick  upon  him  and  hurt  his  noble  mind.  They 
strewed  perfumes  on  his  head,  and  after  lie  had  bathed 
in  a  bath  of  the  choicest  aromatics,  they  brought  him 
rich  and  costly  apparel  to  put  on.  Then  he  was  con- 
ducted to  a  throne  of  massive 'silver,  and  a  regale,  fit  for 
Jove  when  he  banquets,  was  placed  before  him.  But 
the  feast  which  Ulysses  desired  was  to  see  his  friends 
(the  partners  of  his  voyage)  once  more  in  the  shapes  of 
men ;  and  the  food  which  could  give  him  nourishment 
must  be  taken  in  at  his  eyes.  Because  he  missed  this 
sight,  he  sat  melancholy  and  thoughtful,  and  would  taste 
of  none  of  the  rich  delicacies  placed  before  him.  Which 
when  Circe  noted,  she  easily  divined  the  cause  of  his 
sadness,  and  leaving  the  seat  in  which  she  sat  throned, 
went  to  her  sty,  and  led  abroad  his  men,  who  came  in 
like  swine,  and  filled  the  ample  hall,  where  Ulysses  sat, 
with  gruntings.  Hardly  had  he  time  to  let  his  sad  eye 
run  over  their  altered  forms  and  brutal  metamorphosis, 
when  with  an  ointment  which  she  smeared  over  them, 
suddenly  their  bristles  fell  off,  and  they  started  up  in 
their  own  shapes  men  as  before.  They  knew  their  leader 
again,  and  clung  about  him  with  joy  of  their  late  restora- 
tion, and  some  shame  for  their  late  change ;  and  wept  so 
loud,  blubbering  out  their  joy  in  broken  accents,  that  the 
palace  was  filled  with  a  sound  of  pleasing  mourning,  and 
the  witch  herself,  great  Circe,  was  not  unmoved  at  the 
sight.  To  make  her  atonement  complete,  she  sent  for 
the  remnant  of  Ulysses'  men  who  stayed  behind  at  the 
ship,  giving  up  their  great  commander  for  lost;  who 
when  they  came,  and  saw  him  again  alive,  circled  with 
their  fellows,  no  expression  can  tell  what  joy  they  felt ; 
they  even  cried  out  with  rapture,  and  to  have  seen  their 
frantic  expressions  of  mirth,  a  man  might  have  supposed 
that  they  were  just  in  sight  of  their  country  earth,  the 
cliffs  of  rocky  Ithaca.  Only  Eurylochus  would  hardly 
be  persuaded  to  enter  that  palace  of  wonders,  for  he 
remembered  with  a  kind  of  horror  how  his  companions 
had  vanished  from  his  sight. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  107 

•  Then  great  Circe  spake,  and  gave  order,  that  there 
should  be  no  more  sadness  among  them,  nor  remember- 
ing of  past  sufferings.  For  as  yet  they  fared  like  men 
that  are  exiles  from  their  country,  and  if  a  gleam  of  mirth 
shot  among  them,  it  was  suddenly  quenched  with  the 
thought  of  their  helpless  and  homeless  condition.  Her 
kind  persuasions  wrought  upon  Ulysses  and  the  rest, 
that  they  spent  twelve  months  in  all  manner  of  delight 
with  her  in  her  palace.  For  Circe  was  a  powerful 
magician,  and  could  command  the  moon  from  her  sphere, 
or  unroot  the  solid  oak  from  its  place  to  make  it  dance 
for  their  diversion,  and  by  the  help  of  her  illusions  she 
could  vary  the  taste  of  pleasures,  and  contrive  delights, 
recreations,  and  jolly  pastimes,  to  "  fetch  the  day  about 
from  sun  to  sun,  and  rock  the  tedious  year  as  in  a 
delightful  dream." 

At  length  Ulysses  awoke  from  the  trance  of  the 
faculties  into  which  her  charms  had  thrown  him,  and 
the  thought  of  home  returned  with  tenfold  vigour  to  goad 
and  sting  him ;  that  home  where  he  had  left  his  virtuous 
wife  Penelope,  and  his  young  son  Telemachus.  One  day 
when  Circe  had  been  lavish  of  her  caresses,  and  was  in 
her  kindest  humour,  he  moved  to  her  subtly,  and  as  it 
were  afar  off,  the  question  of  his  home-return ;  to  which 
she  answered  firmly,  "  0  Ulysses,  it  is  not  in  my  power  to 
detain  one  whom  the  gods  have  destined  to  further  trials. 
But  leaving  me,  before  you  pursue  your  journey  home,  you 
must  visit  the  hotise  of  Hades,  or  Death,  to  consult  the 
shade  of  Tiresias  the  Theban  prophet ;  to  whom  alone, 
of  all  the  dead,  Proserpine,  queen  of  hell,  has  committed 
the  secret  of  future  events  :  it  is  he  that  must  inform 
you  whether  you  shall  ever  see  again  your  wife  and 
country."  "0  Circe,"  he  cried;  "that  is  impossible: 
who  shall  steer  my  course  to  Pluto's  kingdom  ?  Never  ship 
had  strength  to  make  that  voyage."  "  Seek  no  guide," 
she  replied  ;  "  but  raise  you  your  mast,  and  hoist  your 
white  sails,  and  sit  in  your  ship  in  peace  :  the  north  wind 
shall  waft  you  through  the  seas,  till  you  shall  cross  the 


108  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

expanse  of  the  ocean,  and  come  to  where  grow  the  poplar 
groves,  and  willows  pale,  of  Proserpine  :  where  Pyriphle- 
gethon  and  Cocytus  and  Acheron  mingle  their  waves. 
Cocytus  is  an  arm  of  Styx,  the  forgetful  river.  Here  dig 
a  pit,  and  make  it  a  cubit  broad  and  a  cubit  long,  and 
pour  in  milk,  and  honey,  and  wine,  and  the  blood  of  a 
ram,  and  the  blood  of  a  black  ewe,  and  turn  away  thy 
face  while  thou  pourest  in,  and  the  dead  shall  come  flock- 
ing to  taste  the  milk  and  the  blood ;  but  suffer  none  to 
approach  thy  offering  till  thou  hast  inquired  of  Tiresias 
all  which  thou  wishest  to  know." 

He  did  as  great  Circe  had  appointed.  He  raised  his 
mast,  and  hoisted  his  white  sails,  and  sat  in  his  ship  in 
peace.  The  north  wind  wafted  him  through  the  seas, 
till  he  crossed  the  ocean,  and  came  to  the  sacred  woods 
of  Proserpine.  He  stood  at  the  confluence  of  the  three 
floods,  and  digged  a  pit,  as  she  had  given  directions,  and 
poured  in  his  offering ;  the  blood  of  a  ram,  and  the  blood 
of  a  black  ewe,  milk,  and  honey,  and  wine ;  and  the  dead 
came  to  his  banquet :  aged  men,  and  women,  and  youths, 
and  children  who  died  in  infancy.  But  none  of  them 
would  he  suffer  to  approach,  and  dip  their  thin  lips  in 
the  offering,  till  Tiresias  was  served,  not  though  his  own 
mother  was  among  the  number,  whom  now  for  the  first 
time  he  knew  to  be  dead,  for  he  had  left  her  living  when 
he  went  to  Troy,  and  she  had  died  since  his  departure, 
and  the  tidings  never  reached  him :  though  it  irked  his 
soul  to  use  constraint  upon  her,  yet  in  compliance  with 
the  injunction  of  great  Circe,  he  forced  her  to  retire  along 
with  the  other  ghosts.  Then  Tiresias,  who  bore  a  golden 
sceptre,  came  and  lapped  of  the  offering,  and  immediately 
he  knew  Ulysses,  and  began  to  prophecy :  he  denounced 
woe  to  Ulysses,  woe,  woe,  and  many  sufferings,  through 
tlie  anger  of  Neptune  for  the  putting  out  of  the  eye  of  the 
sea-gods  son.  Yet  there  was  safety  after  suffering,  if 
tJiey  could  abstain  from  slaughtering  the  oxen  of  the  Sun 
after  they  landed  in  the  Triangular  island.  For  Ulysses, 
the  gods  had  destined  him  from  a  king  to  become  a  beggar, 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  109 

and  to  perish  by  his  awn  guests,  unless  he  slew  those  who 
Tcneiv  him  not. 

This  prophecy,  ambiguously  delivered,  was  all  that 
Tiresias  was  empowered  to  unfold,  or  else  there  was  no 
longer  place  for  him  ;  for  now  the  souls  of  the  other  dead 
came  nocking  in  such  numbers,  tumultuously  demanding 
the  blood,  that  freezing  horror  seized  the  limbs  of  the 
living  Ulysses,  to  see  so  many,  and  all  dead,  and  he  the 
only  one  alive  in  that  region.  Now  his  mother  came 
and  lapped  the  blood,  without  restraint  from  her  son,  and 
now  she  knew  him  to  be  her  son,  and  inquired  of  him 
why  he  had  come  alive  to  their  comfortless  habitations. 
And  she  said,  that  affliction  for  Ulysses'  long  absence  had 
preyed  upon  her  spirits,  and  brought  her  to  the  grave. 

Ulysses'  soul  melted  at  her  moving  narration,  and  for- 
getting the  state  of  the  dead,  and  that  the  airy  texture 
of  disembodied  spirits  does  not  admit  of  the  embraces  of 
flesh  and  blood,  he  threw  his  arms  about  her  to  clasp  her  : 
the  poor  ghost  melted  from  his  embrace,  and  looking 
mournfully  upon  him  vanished  away. 

Then  saw  he  other  females. — Tyro,  who  when  she 
lived  was  the  paramour  of  Neptune,  and  by  him  had 
Pelias  and  Neleus.  Antiope,  who  bore  two  like  sons  to 
Jove,  Amphion  and  Zethus,  founders  of  Thebes.  Alcmena , 
the  mother  of  Hercules,  with  her  fair  daughter,  afterwards 
her  daughter-in-law,  Megara.  There  also  Ulysses  saw 
Jocasta,  the  unfortunate  mother  and  wife  of  (Edipus ; 
who  ignorant  of  kin  wedded  with  her  son,  and  when  she 
had  discovered  the  unnatural  alliance,  for  shame  and  grief 
hanged  herself.  He  continued  to  drag  a  wretched  life  above 
the  earth,  haunted  by  the  dreadful  Furies. — There  was 
Leda,  the  wife  of  Tyndarus,  the  mother  of  the  beautiful 
Helen,  and  of  the  two  brave  brothers,  Castor  and  Pollux, 
who  obtained  this  grace  from  Jove,  that  being  dead,  they 
should  enjoy  life  alternately,  living  in  pleasant  places 
under  the  earth.  For  Pollux  bad  prayed  that  his  brother 
Castor,  who  was  subject  to  death,  as  the  son  of  Tyndarus, 
should  partake  of  his  own  immortality,  which  he  derived 


110  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

from  an  immortal  sire  :  this  the  Fates  denied ;  therefore 
Pollux  was  permitted  to  divide  his  immortality  with  his 
brother  Castor,  dying  and  living  alternately. — There  was 
Iphimedeia,  who  bore  two  sons  to  Neptune  that  were 
giants,  Otus  and  Ephialtes :  Earth  in  her  prodigality 
never  nourished  bodies  to  such  portentous  size  and  beauty 
as  these  two  children  were  of,  except  Orion.  At  nine 
years  old  they  had  imaginations  of  climbing  to  heaven  to 
see  what  the  gods  were  doing;  they  thought  to  make 
stairs  of  mountains,  and  were  for  piling  Ossa  upon 
Olympus,  and  setting  Pelion  upon  that,  and  had  perhaps 
performed  it,  if  they  had  lived  till  they  were  strip- 
lings ;  but  they  were  cut  off  by  death  in  the  infancy  of 
their  ambitious  project. — Phaedra  was  there,  and  Procris, 
and  Ariadne,  mournful  for  Theseus'  desertion,  and  Msera, 
and  Clymene,  and  Eryphile,  who  preferred  gold  before 
wedlock  faith. 

But  now  came  a  mournful  ghost,  that  late  was  Aga- 
memnon, son  of  Atreus,  the  mighty  leader  of  all  the  host 
of  Greece  and  their  confederate  kings  that  warred  against 
Troy.  He  came  with  the  rest  to  sip  a  little  of  the  blood 
at  that  uncomfortable  banquet.  Ulysses  was  moved  with 
compassion  to  see  him  among  them,  and  asked  him  what 
untimely  fate  had  brought  him  there,  if  storms  had  over- 
whelmed him  coming  from  Troy,  or  if  he  had  perished  in 
some  mutiny  by  his  own  soldiers  at  a  division  of  the  prey. 

"  By  none  of  these,"  he  replied,  "  did  I  come  to  my 
death,  but  slain  at  a  banquet  to  which  I  was  invited  by 
JEgisthus  after  my  return  home.  He  conspiring  with  my 
adulterous  wife,  they  laid  a  scheme  for  my  destruction, 
training  me  forth  to  a  banquet  as  an  ox  goes  to  the 
slaughter,  and  there  surrounding  me  they  slew  me  with 
all  my  friends  about  me. 

"  Clytemnestra,  my  wicked  wife,  forgetting  the  vows 
which  she  swore  to  me  in  wedlock,  would  not  lend  a 
hand  to  close  my  eyes  in  death.  But  nothing  is  so 
heaped  with  impieties  as  such  a  woman,  who  would  kill 
her  spouse  that  married  her  a  maid.  When  I  brought 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  Ill 

her  home  to  my  house  a  bride,  I  hoped  in  my  heart  that 
she  would  be  loving  to  me  and  to  my  children.  Now, 
her  black  treacheries  have  cast  a  foul  aspersion  on  her 
whole  sex.  Blest  husbands  will  have  their  loving  wives 
in  suspicion  for  her  bad  deeds." 

"  Alas  ! "  said  Ulysses,  "  there  seems  to  be  a  fatal- 
ity in  your  royal  house  of  Atreus,  and  that  they  are 
hated  of  Jove  for  their  wives.  For  Helen's  sake,  your 
brother  Menel  axis'  wife,  what  multitudes  fell  in  the  wars 
of  Troy ! " 

Agamemnon  replied,  "  For  this  cause  be  not  thou 
more  kind  than  wise  to  any  woman.  Let  not  thy  words 
express  to  her  at  any  time  all  that  is  in  thy  mind,  keep 
still  some  secrets  to  thyself.  But  thou  by  any  bloody 
contrivances  of  thy  wife  never  need'st  fear  to  fall.  Ex- 
ceeding wise  she  is,  and  to  her  wisdom  she  has  a  good- 
ness as  eminent :  Icarius'  daughter,  Penelope  the  chaste  : 
we  left  her  a  young  bride  when  we  parted  from  our  wives 
to  go  to  the  wars,  her  first  child  suckling  at  her  breast, 
the  young  Telemachus,  whom  you  shall  see  grown  up  to 
manhood  on  your  return,  and  he  shall  greet  his  father  with 
befitting  welcomes.  My  Orestes,  my  dear  son,  I  shall 
never  see  again.  His  mother  has  deprived  his  father  of 
the  sight  of  him,  and  perhaps  will  slay  him  as  she  slew 
his  sire.  It  is  now  no  world  to  trust  a  woman  in. — But 
what  says  fame  ?  is  my  son  yet  alive  1  lives  he  in 
Orchomen,  or  in  Pylus,  or  is  he  resident  in  Sparta,  in  his 
uncle's  court?  as  yet,  I  see,  divine  Orestes  is  not  here 
with  me." 

To  this  Ulysses  replied  that  he  had  received  no 
certain  tidings  where  Orestes  abode,  only  some  uncertain 
rumours  which  he  could  not  report  for  truth. 

While  they  held  this  sad  conference,  with  kind  tears 
striving  to  render  unkind  fortunes  more  palatable,  the 
soul  of  great  Achilles  joined  them.  "  What  desperate 
adventure  has  brought  Ulysses  to  these  regions,"  said 
Achilles,  "  to  see  the  end  of  dead  men  and  their  foolish 
shades  1 " 


112  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

Ulysses  answered  him  that  he  had  come  to  consult 
Tiresias  respecting  his  voyage  home.  "  But  thou,  0  son 
of  Thetis,"  said  he,  "  why  dost  thou  disparage  the  state  of 
the  dead  ?  seeing  that  as  alive  thou  didst  surpass  all  men 
in  glory,  thou  must  needs  retain  thy  pre-eminence  here 
below  :  so  great  Achilles  triumphs  over  death." 

But  Achilles  made  reply  that  he  had  much  rather  be 
a  peasant-slave  upon  the  earth  than  reign  over  all  the 
dead.  So  much  did  the  inactivity  and  slothful  condition 
of  that  state  displease  his  unquenchable  and  restless 
spirit.  Only  he  inquired  of  Ulysses  if  his  father  Peleus 
were  living,  and  how  his  son  Neoptolemus  conducted 
himself. 

Of  Peleus  Ulysses  could  tell  him  nothing :  but  of 
Neoptolemus  he  thus  bore  witness  :  "  From  Scyros  I 
convoyed  your  son  by  sea  to  the  Greeks,  where  I  can 
speak  of  him,  for  I  knew  him.  He  was  chief  in  council 
and  in  the  field.  When  any  question  was  proposed,  so 
quick  was  his  conceit  in  the  forward  apprehension  of  any 
case,  that  he  ever  spoke  first,  and  was  heard  with  more 
attention  than  the  older  heads.  Only  myself  and  aged 
Nestor  could  compare  with  him  in  giving  advice.  In 
battle  I  cannot  speak  his  praise,  unless  I  could  count  all 
that  fell  by  his  sword.  I  will  only  mention  one  instance 
of  his  manhood.  When  we  sat  hid  in  the  belly  of  the 
wooden  horse,  in  the  ambush  which  deceived  the  Trojans 
to  their  destruction,  I,  who  had  the  management  of  that 
stratagem,  still  shifted  my  place  from  side  to  side  to  note 
the  behaviour  of  our  men.  In  some  I  marked  their 
hearts  trembling,  through  all  the  pains  which  they  took 
to  appear  valiant,  and  in  others  tears,  that  in  spite  of 
manly  courage  would  gush  forth.  And  to  say  truth,  it 
was  an  adventure  of  high  enterprise,  and  as  perilous  a 
stake  as  was  ever  played  in  war's  game.  But  in  him  I 
could  not  observe  the  least  sign  of  weakness,  no  tears  nor 
tremblings,  but  his  hand  still  on  his  good  sword,  and  ever 
urging  me  to  set  open  the  machine  and  let  us  out  before 
the  time  was  come  for  doing  it ;  and  when  we  sallied  out 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  113 

be  was  still  first  in  that  fierce  destruction  and  bloody  mid- 
oight  desolation  of  King  Priam's  city." 

This  made  the  soul  of  Achilles  to  tread  a  swifter  pace, 
with  high-raised  feet,  as  he  vanished  away,  for  the  joy 
which  he  took  in  his  son  being  applauded  by  Ulysses. 

A  sad  shade  stalked  by,  which  Ulysses  knew  to  be 
the  ghost  of  Ajax,  his  opponent,  when  living,  in  that 
famous  dispute  about  the  right  of  succeeding  to  the  arms 
of  the  deceased  Achilles.  They  being  adjudged  by  the 
Greeks  to  Ulysses,  as  the  prize  of  wisdom  above  bodily 
strength,  the  noble  Ajax  in  despite  went  mad,  and  slew 
himself.  The  sight  of  his  rival  turned  to  a  shade  by  his 
dispute,  so  subdued  the  passion  of  emulation  in  Ulysses, 
that  for  his  sake  he  wished  that  judgment  in  that  contro- 
versy had  been  given  against  himself,  rather  than  so 
illustrious  a  chief  should  have  perished  for  the  desire  of 
those  arms,  which  his  prowess  (second  only  to  Achilles 
in  fight)  so  eminently  had  deserved.  "  Ajax,"  he  cried, 
"  all  the-  Oreeks  mourn  for  thee  as  much  as  they  lamented 
for  Achilles. '  Let  not  thy  wrath  burn  for  ever,  great  son 
of  Telamou.  Ulysses  seeks  peace  with  thee,  and  will 
make  any  atonement  to  thee  that  can  appease  thy  hurt 
spirit."  But  the  shade  stalked  on,  and  would  not  ex- 
change a  word  with  Ulysses,  though  he  prayed  it  with 
many  tears  and  many  earnest  entreaties.  "  He  might 
have  spoke  to  me,"  said  Ulysses,  "  since  I  spoke  to  him ; 
but  I  see  the  resentments  of  the  dead  are  eternal." 

Then  Ulysses  saw  a  throne,  on  which  was  placed  a 
judge  distributing  sentence.  He  that  sat  on  the  throne 
was  Minos,  and  he  was  dealing  out  just  judgments  to  the 
dead.  He  it  is  that  assigns  them  their  place  iu  bliss  or 
woe. 

Then  came  by  a  thundering  ghost,  the  large-limbed 
Orion,  the  mighty  hunter,  who  was  hunting  there  the 
ghosts  of  the  beasts  which  he  had  slaughtered  in  desert 
hills  upon  the  earth ;  for  the  dead  delight  in  the  occupa- 
tions which  pleased  them  in  the  time  of  their  living  upon 
the  earth. 


114  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

There  was  Tityus  suffering  eternal  pains  because  he 
had  sought  to  violate  the  honour  of  Latona  as  she  passed 
from  Pytho  into  Panopeus.  Two  vultures  sat  perpetually 
preying  upon  his  liver  with  their  crooked  beaks,  which  as 
fast  as  they  devoured  is  for  ever  renewed ;  nor  can  he 
fray  them  away  with  his  great  hands. 

There  was  Tantalus,  plagued  for  his  great  sins,  stand- 
ing up  to  the  chin  in  water,  which  he  can  never  taste, 
but  still  as  he  bows  his  head,  thinking  to  quench  his 
burning  thirst,  instead  of  water  he  licks  up  unsavoury 
dust.  All  fruits  pleasant  to  the  sight,  and  of  delicious 
flavour,  hang  in  ripe  clusters  about  his  head,  seeming  as 
though  they  offered  themselves  to  be  plucked  by  him ; 
but  when  he  reaches  out  his  hand,  some  wind  carries 
them  far  out  of  his  sight  into  the  clouds,  so  he  is  starved 
in  the  midst  of  plenty  by  the  righteous  doom  of  Jove,  in 
memory  of  that  inhuman  banquet  at  which  the  sun  turned 
pale,  when  the  unnatural  father  served  up  the  limbs  of 
his  little  son  in  a  dish,  as  meat  for  Ms  divine  guests. 

There  was  Sisyphus,  that  sees  no  end  to  his  labours. 
His  punishment  is,  to  be  for  ever  rolling  up  a  vast  stone 
to  the  top  of  a  mountain,  which  when  it  gets  to  the  top, 
falls  down  with  a  crushing  weight,  and  all  his  work  is  to 
be  begun  again.  He  was  bathed  all  over  in  sweat,  that 
reeked  out  a  smoke  which  covered  his  head  like  a  mist. 
His  crime  had  been  the  revealing  of  state  secrets. 

There  Ulysses  saw  Hercules  :  not  that  Hercules  who 
enjoys  immortal  life  in  heaven  among  the  gods,  and  is 
married  to  Hebe  or  Youth,  but  his  shadow  which  remains 
below.  About  him  the  dead  flocked  as  thick  as  bats, 
hovering  around,  and  cuffing  at  his  head  :  he  stands  with 
his  dreadful  bow,  ever  in  the  act  to  shoot- 
There  also  might  Ulysses  have  seen  and  spoken  with 
the  shades  of  Theseus,  and  Pirithous,  and  the  old  heroes  ; 
but  he  had  conversed  enough  with  horrors,  therefore, 
covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  that  he  might  see  no 
more  spectres,  he  resumed  his  seat  in  his  ship,  and  pushed 
off.  The  barque  moved  of  itself  without  the  help  of  any 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  115 

oar,  and  soon  brought  him  out  of  the  regions  of  death 
into  the  cheerful  quarters  of  the  living,  and  to  the  island 
of  ^Eea,  whence  he  had  set  forth. 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  song  of  the  Sirens — Scylla  and  Charybdis — The  oxen  of  the 
Sun — The  judgment — The  crew  killed  by  lightning. 

"  UNHAPPY  man,  who  at  thy  birth  wast  appointed  twice 
to  die  !  others  shall  die  once :  but  thou,  besides  that 
death  that  remains  for  thee,  common  to  all  men,  hast  in 
thy  lifetime  visited  the  shades  of  death.  Thee  Scylla, 
thee  Charybdis,  expect.  Thee  the  deathful  Sirens  lie  in 
wait  for,  that  taint  the  minds  of  whoever  listen  to  them 
with  their  sweet  singing.  Whosoever  shall  but  hear  the 
call  of  any  Siren,  he  will  so  despise  both  wife  and  children 
through  their  sorceries,  that  the  stream  of  his  affection 
never  again  shall  set  homewards,  nor  shall  he  take  joy  in 
wife  or  children  thereafter,  or  they  in  him." 

With  these  prophetic  greetings  great  Circe  met  Ulysses 
on  his  return.  He  besought  her  to  instruct  him  in  the 
nature  of  the  Sirens,  and  by  what  method  their  baneful 
allurements  were  to  be  resisted. 

"  They  are  sisters  three,"  she  replied,  "  that  sit  in  a 
mead  (by  which  your  ship  must  needs  pass)  circled  with 
dead  men's  bones.  These  are  the  bones  of  men  whom 
they  have  slain,  after  with  fawning  invitements  they  have 
enticed  them  into  their  fen.  Yet  such  is  the  celestial 
harmony  of  their  voice  accompanying  the  persuasive  magic 
of  their  words,  that  knowing  this,  you  shall  not  be  able 
to  withstand  their  enticements.  Therefore  when  you  are 
to  sail  by  them,  you  shall  stop  the  ears  of  your  companions 
with  wax,  that  they  may  hear  no  note  of  that  dangerous 
music ;  but  for  yourself,  that  you  may  hear,  and  yet  live, 
give  them  strict  command  to  bind  you  hand  and  foot  to 
the  mast,  and  in  no  case  to  set  you  free,  till  you  are  out 


116  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

of  the  danger  of  the  temptation,  though  you  should  en- 
treat it,  and  implore  it  ever  so  nmch,  but  to  bind  you 
rather  the  more  for  your  requesting  to  be  loosed.  So 
shall  you  escape  that  snare." 

Ulysses  then  prayed  her  that  she  would  inform  him 
what  Scylla  and  Charybdis  were,  which  she  had  taught 
him  by  name  to  fear.  She  replied  :  "  Sailing  from  ^Eea 
to  Trinacria,  you  must  pass  at  an  equal  distance  between 
two  fatal  rocks.  Incline  never  so  little  either  to  the  one 
side  or  the  other,  and  your  ship  must  meet  with  certain 
destruction.  No  vessel  ever  yet  tried  that  pass  without 
being  lost,  but  the  Argo,  which  owed  her  safety  to  the 
sacred  freight  she  bore,  the  fleece  of  the  golden-backed 
ram,  which  could  not  perish.  The  biggest  of  these  rocks 
which  you  shall  come  to,  Scylla  hath  in  charge.  There, 
in  a  deep  whirlpool  at  the  foot  of  the  rock,  the  abhorred 
monster  shrouds  her  face ;  who  if  she  were  to  show  her 
full  form,  no  eye  of  man  or  god  could  endure  the  sight ; 
thence  she  stretches  out  all  her  six  long  necks  peering  and 
diving  to  suck  up  fish,  dolphins,  dog-fish,  and  whales, 
whole  ships,  and  their  men,  whatever  comes  within  her 
raging  gulf.  The  other  rock  is  lesser,  and  of  less  ominous 
aspect ;  but  there  dreadful  Charybdis  sits,  supping  the 
black  deeps.  Thrice  a  day  she  drinks  her  pits  dry,  and 
thrice  a  day  again  she  belches  them  all  up :  but  when 
she  is  drinking,  come  not  nigh,  for  being  once  caught,  the 
force  of  Neptune  cannot  redeem  you  from  her  swallow. 
Better  trust  to  Scylla,  for  she  will  but  have  for  her  six 
necks,  six  men :  Charybdis  in  her  insatiate  draught  will 
ask  all." 

Thon  Ulysses  inquired,  in  case  he  should  escape  Charyb- 
dis, whether  he  might  not  assail  that  other  monster  with 
his  sword :  to  which  she  replied  that  he  must  not  think 
that  he  had  an  enemy  subject  to  death,  or  wounds,  to 
contend  with :  for  Scylla  could  never  die.  Therefore, 
his  best  safety  was  in  flight,  and  to  invoke  none  of  the 
gods  but  Gratis,  who  is  Scylla's  mother,  and  might  per- 
haps forbid  her  daughter  to  devour  them.  For  his  con- 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.       117 

duct  after  he  arrived  at  Trinacria  she  referred  him  to  the 
admonitions  which  had  been  given  him  by  Tiresias. 

Ulysses  having  communicated  her  instructions,  as  far 
as  related  to  the  Sirens,  to  his  companions,  who  had  not 
been  present  at  that  interview  ;  but  concealing  from  them 
the  rest,  as  he  had  done  the  terrible  predictions  of  Tire- 
sias, that  they  might  not  be  deterred  by  fear  from  pursuing 
their  voyage  :  the  time  for  departure  being  come,  they  set 
their  sails,  and  took  a  final  leave  of  great  Circe ;  who  by 
her  art  calmed  the  heavens,  and  gave  them  smooth  seas, 
and  a  right  fore  wind  (the  seaman's  friend)  to  bear  them 
on  their  way  to  Ithaca. 

They  had  not  sailed  past  a  hundred  leagues  before  the 
breeze  which  Circe  had  lent  them  suddenly  stopped.  It 
was  stricken  dead.  All  the  sea  lay  in  prostrate  slumber. 
Not  a  gasp  of  air  could  be  felt.  The  ship  stood  still. 
Ulysses  guessed  that  the  island  of  the  Sirens  was  not  far 
off,  and  that  they  had  charmed  the  air  so  with  their 
devilish  singing.  Therefore  he  made  him  cakes  of  wax, 
as  Circe  had  instructed  him,  and  stopped  the  ears  of  his 
men  with  them  :  then  causing  himself  to  be  bound  hand 
and  foot,  he  commanded  the  rowers  to  ply  their  oars  and 
row  as  fast  as  speed  could  carry  them  past  that  fatal 
shore.  They  soon  came  within  sight  of  the  Sirens,  who 
sang  in  Ulysses'  hearing  : 

Come  here,  tliou,  worthy  of  a  world  of  praise, 
That  dost  so  high  the  Grecian  glory  raise  ; 
Ulysses  !  stay  thy  ship  ;  and  that  song  hear 
That  none  pass'd  ever,  but  it  bent  his  ear, 
But  left  him  ravish'd,  and  instructed  more 
By  us,  than  any,  ever  heard  before. 
For  we  know  all  things,  whatsoever  were 
In  wide  Troy  labour'd  :  whatsoever  there 
The  Grecians  and  the  Trojans  both  sustain'd  : 
By  those  high  issues  that  the  gods  ordain'd  : 
And  whatsoever  all  the  earth  can  show 
To  inform  a  knowledge  of  desert,  we  know. 

These  were  the  words,  but  the  celestial  harmony  of 
the  voices  which  sang  them  no  tongue  can  describe :  it 


118  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

took  the  ear  of  Ulysses  with  ravishment.  He  would 
have  broke  his  bonds  to  rush  after  them ;  and  threatened, 
wept,  sued,  entreated,  commanded,  crying  out  with  tears 
and  passionate  imprecations,  conjuring  his  men  by  all  the 
ties  of  perils  past  which  they  had  endured  in  common,  by 
fellowship  and  love,  and  the  authority  which  he  retained 
among  them,  to  let  him  loose ;  but  at  no  rate  would  they 
obey  him.  And  still  the  Sirens  sang.  Ulysses  made 
signs,  motions,  gestures,  promising  mountains  of  gold  if 
they  would  set  him  free;  but  their  oars  only  moved 
faster.  And  still  the  Sirens  sung.  And  still  the  more 
he  adjured  them  to  set  him  free,  the  faster  with  cords 
and  ropes  they  bound  him ;  till  they  were  quite  out  of 
hearing  of  the  Sirens'  notes,  whose  effect  great  Circe  had 
so  truly  predicted.  And  well  she  might  speak  of  them, 
for  often  she  had  joined  her  own  enchanting  voice  to 
theirs,  while  she  has  sat  in  the  flowery  meads,  mingled 
with  the  Sirens  and  the  Water  Nymphs,  gathering  their 
potent  herbs  and  drugs  of  magic  quality :  their  singing 
altogether  has  made  the  gods  stoop,  and  "  heaven  drowsy 
with  the  harmony." 

Escaped  that  peril,  they  had  not  sailed  yet  an  hundred 
leagues  farther,  when  they  heard  a  roar  afar  off,  which 
Ulysses  knew  to  be  the  barking  of  Scylla's  dogs,  Vhich 
surround  her  waist,  and  bark  incessantly.  Coming  nearer 
they  beheld  a  smoke  ascend,  with  a  horrid  murmur,  which 
arose  from  that  other  whirlpool,  to  which  they  made 
nigher  approaches  than  to  Scylla.  Through  the  furious 
eddy,  which  is  in  that  place,  the  ship  stood  still  as  a 
stone,  for  there  was  no  man  to  lend  his  hand  to  an  oar, 
the  dismal  roar  of  Scylla's  dogs  at  a  distance,  and  the 
nearer  clamours  of  Charybdis,  where  everything  made  an 
echo,  quite  taking  from  them  the  power  of  exertion. 
Ulysses  went  up  and  down  encouraging  his  men,  one  by 
one,  giving  them  good  words,  telling  them  that  they  were 
in  greater  perils  when  they  were  blocked  up  in  the  Cyclop's 
cave,  yet,  heaven  assisting  his  counsels,  he  had  delivered 
them  out  of  that  extremity.  That  he  could  not  believe 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  119 

but  they  remembered  it ;  and  wished  them  to  give  the 
same  trust  to  the  same  care  which  he  had  now  for  their 
welfare.  That  they  must  exert  all  the  strength  and  wit 
which  they  had,  and  try  if  Jove  would  not  grant  them  an 
escape  even  out  of  this  peril.  In  particular  he  cheered 
up  the  pilot  who  sat  at  the  helm,  and  told  him  that  he 
must  show  more  firmness  than  other  men,  as  he  had 
more  trust  committed  to  him,  and  had  the  sole  manage- 
ment by  liis  skill  of  the  vessel  in  which  all  their  safeties 
were  embarked.  That  a  rock  lay  hid  within  those  boil- 
ing whirlpools  which  he  saw,  on  the  outside  of  which  he 
must  steer,  if  he  would  avoid  his  own  destruction,  and 
the  destruction  of  them  all. 

They  heard  him,  and  like  men  took  to  the  oars ;  but 
little  knew  what  opposite  danger,  in  shunning  that  rock, 
they  must  be  thrown  upon.  For  Ulysses  had  concealed 
from  them  the  wounds,  never  to  be  healed,  which  Scylla 
was  to  open :  their  terror  would  else  have  robbed  them 
all  of  all  care  to  steer,  or  move  an  oar,  and  have  made 
them  hide  under  the  hatches  for  fear  of  seeing  her,  where 
he  and  they  must  have  died  an  idle  death.  But  even 
then  he  forgot  the  precautions  which  Circe  had  given  him 
to  prevent  harm  to  his  person ;  who  had  willed  him  not 
to  arm,  or  show  himself  once  to  Scylla :  but  disdaining 
not  to  venture  life  for  his  brave  companions,  he  could  not 
contain,  but  armed  in  all  points,  and  taking  a  lance  in 
either  hand,  he  went  up  to  the  fore  deck,  and  looked 
when  Scylla  would  appear. 

She  did  not  show  herself  as  yet,  and  still  the  vessel 
steered  closer  by  her  rock,  as  it  sought  to  shun  that  other 
more  dreaded :  for  they  saw  how  horribly  Charybdis' 
black  throat  drew  into  her  all  the  whirling  deep,  which 
she  disgorged  again,  that  all  about  her  boiled  like  a 
kettle,  and  the  rock  roared  with  troubled  waters ;  which 
when  she  supped  in  again,  all  the  bottom  turned  up,  and 
disclosed  far  under  shore  the  swart  sands  naked,  whose 
whole  stern  sight  frayed  the  startled  blood  from  their 
faces,  and  made  Ulysses  turn  his  to  view  the  wonder  of 


120  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

whirlpools.  Which  when  Scylla  saw,  from  out  her  black 
den,  she  darted  out  her  six  long  necks,  and  swoopt  up  as 
many  of  his  friends  :  whose  cries  Ulysses  heard,  and  saw 
them  too  late,  with  their  heels  turned  up,  and  their 
hands  thrown  to  him  for  succour,  who  had  been  their 
help  in  all  extremities,  but  could  not  deliver  them  now ; 
and  he  heard  them  shriek  out,  as  she  tore  them,  and  to 
the  last  they  continued  to  throw  their  hands  out  to  him 
for  sweet  life.  In  all  his  sufferings  he  never  had  beheld 
a  sight  so  full  of  miseries. 

Escaped  from  Scylla  and  Charybdis,  but  with  a  dimin- 
ished crew,  Ulysses,  and  the  sad  remains  of  his  followers, 
reached  the  Trinacrian  shore.  Here  landing,  he  beheld 
oxen  grazing  of  such  surpassing  size  and  beauty,  that 
both  from  them,  and  from  the  shape  of  the  island 
(having  three  promontories  jutting  into  the  sea)  he 
judged  rightly  that  he  was  come  to  the  Triangular 
island,  and  the  oxen  of  the  Sun,  of  which  Tiresias  had 
forewarned  him. 

So  great  was  his  terror  lest  through  his  own  fault,  or 
that  of  his  men,  any  violence  or  profanation  should  be 
offered  to  the  holy  oxen,  that  even  then,  tired  as  they 
were  with  the  perils  and  fatigues  of  the  day  past,  and 
unable  to  stir  an  oar,  or  use  any  exertion,  and  though 
night  was  fast  coming  on,  he  would  have  them  re-embark 
immediately,  and  make  the  best  of  their  way  from  that 
dangerous  station ;  but  his  men  with  one  voice  resolutely 
opposed  it,  and  even  the  too  cautious  Eurylochus  himself 
withstood  the  proposal ;  so  much  did  the  temptation  of 
a  little  ease  and  refreshment  (ease  tenfold  sweet  after 
such  labours)  prevail  over  the  sagest  counsels,  and  the 
apprehension  of  certain  evil  outweigh  the  prospect  of 
contingent  danger.  They  expostulated,  that  the  nerves 
of  Ulysses  seemed  to  be  made  of  steel,  and  his  limbs  not 
liable  to  lassitude  like  other  men's ;  that  waking  or 
Bleeping  seemed  indifferent  to  him  ;  but  that  they  were 
men,  not  gods,  and  felt  the  common  appetites  for  food 
and  sleep.  That  in  the  night-time  all  the  winds  most 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  121 

destructive  to  ships  are  generated.  That  black  night 
still  required  to  be  served  with  meat,  and  sleep,  and 
quiet  havens  and  ease.  That  the  best  sacrifice  to  the  sea 
was  in  the  morning.  With  such  sailor-like  sayings  and 
mutinous  arguments,  which  the  majority  have  always 
ready  to  justify  disobedience  to  their  betters,  they  forced 
Ulysses  to  comply  with  their  requisition,  and  against  his 
will  to  take  up  his  night-quarters  on  shore.  But  he 
first  exacted  from  them  an  oath  that  they  would  neither 
maim  nor  kill  any  of  the  cattle  which  they  saw  grazing, 
but  content  themselves  with  such  food  as  Circe  had 
stowed  their  vessel  with  when  they  parted  from  JEea. 
This  they  man  by  man  severally  promised,  imprecating 
the  heaviest  curses  on  whoever  should  break  it ;  and 
mooring  their  bark  within  a  creek,  they  went  to  supper, 
contenting  themselves  that  night  with  such  food  as  Circe 
had  given  them,  not  without  many  sad  thoughts  of  their 
friends  whom  Scylla  had  devoured,  the  grief  of  which 
kept  them  great  part  of  the  night  waking. 

In  the  morning  Ulysses  urged  them  again  to  a 
religious  observance  of  the  oath  that  they  had.  sworn,  not 
in  any  case  to  attempt  the  blood  of  those  fair  herds 
which  they  saw  grazing,  but  to  content  themselves  with 
the  ship's  food ;  for  the  god  who  owned  those  cattle  sees 
and  hears  all 

They  faithfully  obeyed,  and  remained  in  that  good 
mind  for  a  month,  during  which  they  were  confined  to 
that  station  by  contrary  winds,  till  all  the  wine  and  the 
bread  were  gone,  which  they  had  brought  with  them. 
When  their  victuals  were  gone,  necessity  compelled  them 
to  stray  in  quest  of  whatever  fish  or  fowl  they  could  snare, 
which  that  coast  did  not  yield  in  any  great  abundance 
Then  Ulysses  prayed  to  all  the  gods  that  dwelt  in  bounti- 
ful heaven,  that  they  would  be  pleased  to  yield  them  some 
means  to  stay  their  hunger  without  having  recourse  to 
profane  and  forbidden  violations  :  but  the  ears  of  heaven 
seemed  to  be  shut,  or  some  god  incensed  plotted  his  ruin ; 
for  at  mid-day,  when  he  should  chiefly  have  been  vigilant 


122  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

and  watchful  to  prevent  mischief,  a  deep  sleep  fell  upon 
the  eyes  of  Ulysses,  during  which  he  lay  totally  insensible 
of  all  that  passed  in  the  world,  and  what  his  friends  or 
what  his  enemies  might  do,  for  his  welfare  or  destruction. 
Then  Eurylochus  took  his  advantage.  He  was  the  man 
of  most  authority  with  them  after  Ulysses.  He  repre- 
sented to  them  all  the  misery  of  their  condition;  how 
that  every  death  is  hateful  and  grievous  to  mortality,  but 
that  of  all  deaths  famine  is  attended  with  the  most  pain- 
ful, loathsome,  and  humiliating  circumstances ;  that  the 
subsistence  which  they  could  hope  to  draw  from  fowling 
or  fishing  was  too  precarious  to  be  depended  upon ;  that 
there  did  not  seem  to  be  any  chance  of  the  winds  chang- 
ing to  favour  their  escape,  but  that  they  must  inevitably 
stay  there  and  perish,  if  they  let  an  irrational  superstition 
deter  them  from  the  means  which  nature  offered  to  their 
hands ;  that  Ulysses  might  be  deceived  in  his  belief  that 
these  oxen  had  any  sacred  qualities  above  other  oxen; 
and  even  admitting  that  they  were  the  property  of  the 
god  of  the  Sun,  as  he  said  they  were,  the  Sun  did  neither 
eat  nor  drink,  and  the  gods  were  best  served  not  by  a 
scrupulous  conscience,  but  by  a  thankful  heart,  which 
took  freely  what  they  as  freely  offered :  with  these  and 
such-like  persuasions  he  prevailed  on  his  half-famished 
and  half-mutinous  companions,  to  begin  the  impious 
violation  of  their  oath  by  the  slaughter  of  seven  of  the 
fairest  of  these  oxen  which  were  grazing.  Part  they 
roasted  and  eat,  and  part  they  offered  in  sacrifice  to  the 
gods,  particularly  to  Apollo,  god  of  the  Sun,  vowing  to 
build  a  temple  to  his  godhead,  when  they  should  arrive 
in  Ithaca,  and  deck  it  with  magnificent  and  numerous 
gifts  :  Vain  men  !  and  superstition  worse  than  that  which 
they  so  lately  derided  !  to  imagine  that  prospective  peni- 
tence can  excuse  a  present  violation  of  duty,  and  that  the 
pure  natures  of  the  heavenly  powers  will  admit  of  com- 
promise or  dispensation  for  sin. 

But   to  their  feast   they  fell,   dividing   the   roasted 
portions  of  the  flesh,  savoury  and  pleasant  meat  to  them, 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  123 

but  a  sad  sight  to  the  eyes  and  a  savour  of  death  in  the 
nostrils  of  the  waking  Ulysses ;  who  just  woke  in  time 
to  witness,  but  not  soon  enough  to  prevent,  their  rash 
and  sacrilegious  banquet.  He  had  scarce  time  to  ask 
what  great  mischief  was  this  which  they  had  done  unto 
him ;  when  behold,  a  prodigy !  the  ox-hides  which  they 
had  stripped  began  to  creep,  as  if  they  had  life ;  and  the 
roasted  flesh  bellowed  as  the  ox  used  to  do  when  he  was 
living.  The  hair  of  Ulysses  stood  up  on  end  with  affright 
at  these  omens ;  but  his  companions,  like  men  whom  the 
gods  had  infatuated  to  their  destruction,  persisted  in  their 
horrible  banquet. 

The  Sun  from  its  burning  chariot  saw  how  Ulysses' 
men  had  slain  his  oxen,  and  he  cried  to  his  father  Jove  : 
"  Revenge  me  upon  these  impious  men  who  have  slain 
my  oxen,  which  it  did  me  good  to  look  upon  when  I 
walked  my  heavenly  round.  In  all  my  daily  course  I 
never  saw  such  bright  and  beautiful  creatures  as  those 
my  oxen  were."  The  father  promised  that  ample  retribu- 
tion should  be  taken  of  those  accursed  men  :  which  was 
fulfilled  shortly  after,  when  they  took  their  leaves  of  the 
fatal  island. 

Six  days  they  feasted  in  spite  of  the  signs  of  heaven, 
and  on  the  seventh,  the  wind  changing,  they  set  their 
sails  and  left  the  island ;  and  their  hearts  were  cheerful 
with  the  banquets  they  had  held ;  all  but  the  heart  of 
Ulysses,  which  sank  within  him,  as  with  wet  eyes  he 
beheld  his  friends,  and  gave  them  for  lost,  as  men  devoted 
to  divine  vengeance.  Which  soon  overtook  them :  for 
they  had  not  gone  many  leagues  before  a  dreadful  tempest 
arose,  which  bur-:t  their  cables ;  down  came  their  mast, 
crushing  the  scull  of  the  pilot  in  its  fall ;  off  he  fell  from 
the  stern  into  the  water,  and  the  bark  wanting  his 
management  drove  along  at  the  wind's  mercy :  thunders 
roared,  and  terrible  lightnings  of  Jove  came  down ;  first 
a  bolt  struck  Eurylochus,  then  another,  and  then  another, 
till  all  the  crew  were  killed,  and  their  bodies  swam  about 
like  sea-mews ;  and  the  ship  was  split  in  pieces :  only 


124  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

Ulysses  survived ;  and  he  had  no  hope  of  safety  but  in 
tying  himself  to  the  mast,  where  he  sat  riding  upon  the 
waves,  like  one  that  in  no  extremity  would  yield  to 
fortune.  Nine  days  was  he  floating  about  with  all  the 
motions  of  the  sea,  with  no  other  support  than  the 
slender  mast  under  him,  till  the  tenth  night  cast  him,  all 
spent  and  weary  with  toil  upon  the  friendly  shores  of  the 
island  Ogygia. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  island  of  Calypso — Immortality  refused. 

HENCEFORTH  the  adventures  of  the  single  Ulysses  must 
be  pursued.  Of  all  those  faithful  partakers  of  his  toil, 
who  with  him  left  Asia,  laden  with  the  spoils  of  Troy, 
now  not  one  remains,  but  all  a  prey  to  the  remorseless 
waves,  and  food  for  some  great  fish ;  their  gallant  navy 
reduced  to  one  ship,  and  that  finally  swallowed  up  and 
lost.  Where  now  are  all  their  anxious  thoughts  of  home? 
that  perseverance  with  which  they  went  through  the 
severest  sufferings  and  the  hardest  labours  to  which  poor 
seafarers  were  ever  exposed,  that  their  toils  at  last  might 
be  crowned  with  the  sight  of  their  native  shores  and 
wives  at  Ithaca ! — Ulysses  is  now  in  the  isle  Ogygia ; 
called  the  Delightful  Island.  The  poor  shipwrecked 
chief,  the  slave  of  all  the  elements,  is  once  again  raised 
by  the  caprice  of  fortune  into  a  shadow  of  prosperity. 
He  that  was  cast  naked  upon  the  shore,  bereft  of  all  his 
companions,  has  now  a  goddess  to  attend  upon  him,  and 
his  companions  are  the  nymphs  which  never  die. — Who 
has  not  heard  of  Calypso  ?  her  grove  crowned  with  alders 
and  poplars  1  her  grotto,  against  which  the  luxuriant  vine 
laid  forth  his  purple  grapes?  her  ever  new  delights, 
crystal  fountains,  running  brooks,  meadows  flowering 
with  sweet  balm -gentle  and  with  violet:  blue  violets 
which  like  veins  enamelled  the  smooth  breasts  of  each 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  125 

fragrant  mead  !  It  were  useless  to  describe  over  again 
what  has  been  so  well  told  already :  or  to  relate  those 
soft  arts  of  courtship  which  the  goddess  used  to  detain 
Ulysses  ;  the  same  in  kind  which  she  afterwards  practised 
upon  his  less  wary  son,  whom  Minerva,  in  the  shape  of 
Mentor,  hardly  preserved  from  her  snares,  when  they 
came  to  the  Delightful  Island  together  in  search  of  the 
scarce  departed  Ulysses. 

A  memorable  example  of  married  love,  and  a  worthy 
instance  how  dear  to  every  good  man  his  country  is,  was 
exhibited  by  Ulysses.  If  Circe  loved  him  sincerely, 
Calypso  loves  him  with  tenfold  more  warmth  and  passion : 
she  can  deny  him  nothing  but  his  departure ;  she  offers 
him  everything,  even  to  a  participation  of  her  immor- 
tality ;  if  he  will  stay  and  share  in  her  pleasures  he 
shall  never  die.  But  death  with  glory  has  greater  charms 
for  a  mind  heroic  than  a  life  that  shall  never  die  with 
shame ;  and  when  he  pledged  his  vows  to  his  Penelope, 
he  reserved  no  stipulation  that  he  would  forsake  her 
whenever  a  goddess  should  think  him  worthy  of  her  bed, 
but  they  had  sworn  to  live  and  grow  old  together :  and 
he  would  not  survive  her  if  he  could,  nor  meanly  share 
in  immortality  itself,  from  which  she  was  excluded. 

These  thoughts  kept  him  pensive  and  melancholy  in 
the  midst  of  pleasure.  His  heart  was  on  the  seas,  making 
voyages  to  Ithaca.  Twelve  months  had  worn  away, 
when  Minerva  from  heaven  sa\v  her  favourite,  how  he 
sat  still  pining  on  the  sea  shores  (his  daily  custom), 
wishing  for  a  ship  to  carry  him  home.  She  (who  is 
wisdom  herself)  was  indignant  that  so  wise  and  brave  a 
man  as  Ulysses  should  be  held  in  effeminate  bondage  by 
an  unworthy  goddess :  and  at  her  request,  her  father 
Jove  ordered  Mercury  to  go  down  to  the  earth  to  com- 
mand Calypso  to  dismiss  her  guest.  The  divine  mes- 
senger tied  fast  to  his  feet  his  winged  shoes,  which  bear 
him  over  land  and  seas,  and  took  in  his  hand  his  golden 
rod,  the  ensign  of  his  authority.  Then  wheeling  in 
many  an  airy  round,  he  stayed  not  till  he  alighted  on 


126  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

the  firm  top  of  the  mountain  Pieria :  thence  he  fetched 
a  second  circuit  over  the  seas,  kissing  the  waves  in  his 
flight  with  his  feet,  as  light  as  any  sea-mew  fishing  dips 
her  wings,  till  he  touched  the  isle  Ogygia,  and  soared  up 
from  the  blue  sea  to  the  grotto  of  the  goddess,  to  whom 
his  errand  was  ordained. 

His  message  struck  a  horror,  checked  by  love,  through 
all  the  faculties  of  Calypso.  She  replied  to  it,  incensed  : 
"  You  gods  are  insatiate,  past  all  that  live,  in  all  things 
which  you  affect ;  which  makes  you  so  envious  and 
grudging.  It  afflicts  you  to  the  heart,  when  any  goddess 
seeks  the  love  of  a  mortal  man  in  marriage,  though  you 
yourselves  without  scruple  link  yourselves  to  women  of 
the  earth.  So  it  fared  with  you,  when  the  delicious- 
fingered  Morning  shared  Orion's  bed ;  you  could  never 
satisfy  your  hate  and  your  jealousy  till  you  had  incensed 
the  chastity -loving  dame,  Diana,  who  leads  the  precise 
life,  to  come  upon  him  by  stealth  in  Ortygia,  and  pierce 
him  through  with  her  arrows.  And  when  rich -haired 
Ceres  gave  the  reins  to  her  affections,  and  took  lasion 
(well  worthy)  to  her  arms,  the  secret  was  not  so  cunningly 
kept  but  Jove  had  soon  notice  of  it,  and  the  poor  mortal 
paid  for  his  felicity  with  death,  struck  through  with 
lightnings.  And  now  you  envy  me  the  possession  of  a 
wretched  man,  whom  tempests  have  cast  upon  my  shores, 
making  him  lawfully  mine ;  whose  ship  Jove  rent  in 
pieces  with  his  hot  thunderbolts,  killing  all  his  friends. 
Him  I  have  preserved,  loved,  nourished,  made  him  mine 
by  protection,  my  creature,  by  every  tie  of  gratitude 
mine ;  have  vowed  to  make  him  deathless  like  myself ; 
him  you  will  take  from  me.  But  I  know  your  power, 
and  that  it  is  vain  for  me  to  resist.  Tell  your  king  that 
I  obey  his  mandates." 

With  an  ill  grace  Calypso  promised  to  fulfil  the  com- 
mands of  Jove ;  and,  Mercury  departing,  she  went  to 
find  Ulysses,  where  he  sat  outside  the  grotto,  not  know- 
ing of  the  heavenly  message,  drowned  in  discontent,  not 
seeing  any  human  probability  of  his  ever  returning  home. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  127 

She  said  to  him :  "  Unhappy  man,  no  longer  afflict 
yourself  with  pining  after  your  country,  but  build  you  a 
ship,  with  which  you  may  return  home ;  since  it  is  the 
will  of  the  gods  :  who,  doubtless,  as  they  are  greater  in 
power  than  I,  are  greater  in  skill,  and  best  can  tell  what 
is  fittest  for  man.  But  I  call  the  gods  and  my  inward 
conscience,  to  witness,  that  I  had  no  thought  but  what 
stood  with  thy  safety,  nor  would  have  done  or  counselled 
anything  against  thy  good.  I  persuaded  thee  to  nothing 
which  I  should  not  have  followed  myself  in  thy  extremity : 
for  my  mind  is  innocent  and  simple.  0,  if  thou  knewest 
what  dreadful  sufferings  thou  must  yet  endure  before 
ever  thou  reachest  thy  native  land,  thou  wouldest  not 
esteem  so  hardly  of  a  goddess'  offer  to  share  her  immor- 
tality with  thee ;  nor,  for  a  few  years'  enjoyment  of  a 
perishing  Penelope,  refuse  an  imperishable  and  never- 
dying  life  with  Calypso." 

He  replied :  "  Ever-honoured,  great  Calypso,  let  it 
not  displease  thee,  that  I,  a  mortal  man,  desire  to  see  and 
converse  again  with  a  wife  that  is  mortal ;  human  objects 
are  best  fitted  to  human  infirmities.  I  well  know  how 
far  in  wisdom,  in  feature,  in  stature,  proportion,  beauty, 
in  all  the  gifts  of  the  mind,  thou  exceedest  my  Penelope : 
she  a  mortal,  and  subject  to  decay  ;  thou  immortal,  ever 
growing,  yet  never  old ;  yet  in  her  sight  all  my  desires 
terminate,  all  my  wishes ;  in  the  sight  of  her,  and  of  my 
country  earth.  If  any  god,  envious  of  my  return,  shall 
lay  his  dreadful  hand  upon  me  as  I  pass  the  seas,  I  sub- 
mit ;  for  the  same  powers  have  given  me  a  mind  not  to 
sink  under  oppression.  In  wars  and  waves  my  sufferings 
have  not  been  small." 

She  heard  his  pleaded  reasons,  and  of  force  she  must 
assent ;  so  to  her  nymphs  she  gave  in  charge  from  her 
sacred  woods  to  cut  down  timber,  to  make  Ulysses  a  ship. 
They  obeyed,  though  in  a  work  unsuitable  to  their  soft 
fingers,  yet  to  obedience  no  sacrifice  is  hard :  and  Ulysses 
busily  bestirred  himself,  labouring  far  more  hard  than 
they,  as  was  fitting,  till  twenty  tall  trees,  driest  and 


128  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

fittest  for  timber,  were  felled.  Then  like  a  skilful  sh\\t- 
wright  he  fell  to  joining  the  planks,  using  the  plane, 
the  axe,  and  the  augur,  with  such  expedition,  that  in 
four  days'  time  a  ship  was  made,  complete  with  all  her 
decks,  hatches,  side-boards,  yards.  Calypso  added  linen 
for  the  sails,  and  tackling ;  and  when  she  was  finished, 
she  was  a  goodly  vessel  for  a  man  to  sail  in  alone,  or  in 
company,  over  the  wide  seas.  By  the  fifth  morning  she 
was  launched ;  and  Ulysses,  furnished  with  store  of  pro- 
visions, rich  garments,  and  gold  and  silver,  given  him  by 
Calypso,  took  a  last  leave  of  her,  and  of  her  nymphs, 
and  of  the  isle  Ogygia  which  had  so  befriended  him. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  tempest — The  sea-bird's  gift — The  escape  by  swimming — The 
sleep  in  the  woods. 

AT  the  stern  of  his  solitary  ship  Ulysses  sat  and  steered 
right  artfully.  No  sleep  could  seize  his  eyelids.  He 
beheld  the  Pleiads,  the  Bear  which  is  by  some  called  the 
Wain,  that  moves  round  about  Orion,  and  keeps  still 
above  the  ocean,  and  the  slow-setting  sign  Bootes,  which 
some  name  the  Waggoner.  Seventeen  days  he  held  his 
course,  and  on  the  eighteenth  the  coast  of  Phaeacia  was 
in  sight.  The  figure  of  the  land,  as  seen  from  the  sea, 
was  pretty  and  circular,  and  looked  something  like  a 
shield. 

Neptune  returning  from  visiting  his  favourite  ^Ethi- 
opians, from  the  mountains  of  the  Solymi,  descried  Ulysses 
ploughing  the  waves,  his  domain.  The  sight  of  the  man 
he  so  much  hated  for  Polyphemus'  sake,  his  son,  whose 
eye  Ulysses  had  put  out,  set  the  god's  heart  on  fire,  and 
snatching  into  his  hand  his  horrid  sea-sceDtre,  the  trident 
of  his  power,  he  smote  the  air  and  the  sea,  and  conjured 
up  all  his  black  storms,  calling  down  night  from  the  cope 
of  heaven  and  taking  the  earth  into  the  sea,  as  it  seemed, 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  129 

clouds,  through  the  darkness  and  indistinctness  which 
prevailed,  the  billows  rolling  up  before  the  fury  of  all 
the  winds  that  contended  together  in  their  mighty 
sport. 

Then  the  knees  of  Ulysses  bent  with  fear,  and  then 
all  his  spirit  was  spent,  and  he  wished  that  he  had  been 
among  the  number  of  his  countrymen  who  fell  before 
Troy,  and  had  their  funerals  celebrated  by  all  the  Greeks, 
rather  than  to  perish  thus,  where  no  man  could  mourn 
him  or  know  him. 

As  he  thought  these  melancholy  thoughts,  a  huge 
wave  took  him  and  washed  him  overboard,  ship  and  all 
upset  amidst  the  billows,  he  struggling  afar  off,  clinging 
to  her  stern  broken  off  which  he  yet  held,  her  mast 
cracking  in  two  with  the  fury  of  that  gust  of  mixed  winds 
that  struck  it,  sails  and  sail-yards  fell  into  the  deep,  and 
he  himself  was  long  drowned  under  water,  nor  could  get 
his  head  above,  wave  so  met  with  wave,  as  if  they  strove 
which  should  depress  him  most,  and  the  gorgeous  gar- 
ments given  him  by  Calypso  clung  about  him,  and  hindered 
his  swimming ;  yet  neither  for  this,  nor  for  the  overthrow 
of  his  ship,  nor  his  own  perilous  condition,  would  he  give 
up  his  drenched  vessel,  but,  wrestling  with  Neptune,  got 
at  length  hold  of  her  again,  and  then  sat  in  her  bulk, 
insulting  over  death,  which  he  had  escaped,  and  the  salt 
waves  which  he  gave  the  sea  again  to  give  to  other  men  : 
his  ship,  striving  to  live,  floated  at  random,  cuffed  from 
wave  to  wave,  hurled  to  and  fro  by  all  the  winds ;  now 
Boreas  tossed  it  to  Notus,  Notus  passed  it  to  Eurus, 
and  Eurus  to  the  west  wind,  who  kept  up  the  horrid 
tennis. 

Them  in  their  mad  sport  Ino  Leucothea  beheld ;  Ino 
Leucothea,  now  a  sea-goddess,  but  once  a  mortal  and  the 
daughter  of  Cadmus ;  she  with  pity  beheld  Ulysses  th« 
mark  of  their  fierce  contention,  and  rising  from  the  waves 
alighted  on  the  ship,  in  shape  like  to  the  sea-bird  which 
is  called  a  cormorant,  and  in  her  beak  she  held  a  wonder- 
ful girdle  made  of  sea-weeds  which  grow  at  the  bottom  of 


130  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES 

the  ocean,  which  she  dropped  at  his  feet,  and  the  bird 
spake  to  Ulysses  and  counselled  him  not  to  trust  any 
more  to  that  fatal  vessel  against  which  god  Neptune  had 
levelled  his  furious  wrath,  nor  to  those  ill-befriending 
garments  which  Calypso  had  given  him,  but  to  quit  both 
it  and  them,  and  trust  for  his  safety  to  swimming.  "  And 
here,"  said  the  seeming  bird,  "  take  this  girdle  and  tie 
about  your  middle,  which  has  virtue  to  protect  the  wearer 
at  sea,  and  you  shall  safely  reach  the  shore  ;  but  when 
you  have  landed  cast  it  far  from  you  back  into  the 
sea."  He  did  as  the  sea-bird  instructed  him,  he  stripped 
himself  naked,  and  fastening  the  wondrous  girdle  about 
his  middle,  cast  himself  into  the  seas  to  swim.  The 
bird  dived  past  his  sight  into  the  fathomless  abyss  of 
the  ocean. 

Two  days  and  two  nights  he  spent  in  straggling  with 
the  waves,  though  sore  biuTetted  and  almost  spent,  never 
giving  up  himself  for  lost,  such  confidence  he  had  in  that 
charm  which  he  wore  about  his  middle,  and  in  the  words 
of  that  divine  bird.  But  the  third  morning  the  winds 
grew  calm,  and  all  the  heavens  were  clear.  Then  he 
saw  himself  nigh  land,  which  he  knew  to  be  the  coast  of 
the  Phseacians,  a  people  good  to  strangers,  and  abounding 
in  ships,  by  whose  favour  he  doubted  not  that  he  should 
soon  obtain  a  passage  to  his  own  country.  And  such  joy 
he  conceived  in  his  heart,  as  good  sons  have  that  esteem 
their  father's  life  dear,  when  long  sickness  has  held  him 
down  to  his  bed,  and  wasted  his  body,  and  they  see  at 
length  health  return  to  the  old  man,  with  restored 
strength  and  spirits,  in  reward  of  their  many  prayers  to 
the  gods  for  his  safety :  so  precious  was  the  prospect  of 
home-return  to  Ulysses,  that  he  might  restore  health  to 
his  country  (his  better  parent),  that  had  long  languished 
as  full  of  distempers  in  his  absence.  And  then  for  his 
own  safety's  sake  he  had  joy  to  see  the  shores,  the  woods, 
so  nigh  and  within  his  grasp  as  they  seemed,  and  he 
laboured  with  all  the  might  of  hands  and  feet  to  reach 
with  swimming  that  nigh-seeming  land. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  131 

But  when  he  approached  near,  a  horrid  sound  of  a 
huge  sea  beating  against  rocks  informed  him  that  here 
was  no  place  for  landing,  nor  any  harbour  for  man's 
resort,  but  through  the  weeds  and  the  foam  which  the 
sea  belched  up  against  the  land  he  could  dimly  discover 
the  rugged  shore  all  bristled  with  flints,  and  all  that  part 
of  the  coast  one  impending  rock  that  seemed  impossible 
to  climb,  and  the  water  all  about  so  deep,  that  not  a  sand 
was  there  for  any  tired  foot  to  rest  upon,  and  every 
moment  he  feared  lest  some  wave  more  cruel  than  the 
rest  should  crush  him  against  a  cliff,  rendering  worse  than 
vain  all  his  landing :  and  should  he  swim  to  seek  a  more 
commodious  haven  farther  on,  he  was  fearful  lest,  weak 
and  spent  as  he  was,  the  winds  would  force  him  back  a 
long  way  off  into  the  main,  where  the  terrible  god  Neptune, 
for  wrath  that  he  had  so  nearly  escaped  his  power,  having 
gotten  him  again  into  his  domain,  would  send  out  some 
great  whale  (of  which  those  seas  breed  a  horrid  number) 
to  swallow  him  up  alive ;  with  such  malignity  he  still 
pursued  him. 

While  these  thoughts  distracted  him  with  diversity  of 
dangers,  one  bigger  wave  drove  against  a  sharp  rock  his 
naked  body,  which  it  gashed  and  tore,  and  wanted  little 
of  breaking  all  his  bones,  so  rude  was  the  shock.  But 
in  this  extremity  she  prompted  him  that  never  failed  him 
at  need.  Minerva  (who  is  wisdom  itself)  put  it  into  his 
thoughts  no  longer  to  keep  swimming  off  and  on,  as  one 
dallying  with  danger,  but  boldly  to  force  the  shore  that 
threatened  him,  and  to  hug  the  rock  that  had  torn  him 
so  rudely ;  which  with  both  hands  he  clasped,  wrestling 
with  extremity,  till  the  rage  of  that  billow  which  had 
driven  him  upon  it  was  past ;  but  then  again  the  rock 
drove  back  that  wave  so  furiously,  that  it  reft  him  of  his 
hold,  sucking  him  with  it  in  his  return,  and  the  sharp 
rock  (his  cruel  friend)  to  which  he  clinged  for  succour, 
rent  the  flesh  so  sore  from  his  hands  in  parting,  that  he 
fell  off,  and  could  sustain  no  longer :  quite  under  water 
he  fell,  and  past  the  help  of  fate,  there  had  the  hapless 


132  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

Ulysses  lost  all  portion  that  he  had  in  this  life,  if  Minerva 
had  not  prompted  his  wisdom  in  that  peril  to  essay 
another  course,  and  to  explore  some  other  shelter,  ceasing 
to  attempt  that  landing-place. 

She  guided  his  wearied  and  nigh -exhausted  limbs  to 
the  mouth  of  the  fair  river  Calliroe,  which  not  far  from 
thence  disbursed  its  watery  tribute  to  the  ocean.  Here 
the  shores  were  easy  and  accessible,  and  the  rocks,  which 
rather  adorned  than  defended  its  banks,  so  smooth,  that 
they  seemed  polished  of  purpose  to  invite  the  landing  of 
our  sea-wanderer,  and  to  atone  for  the  uncourteous  treat- 
ment which  those  less  hospitable  cliffs  had  afforded  him. 
And  the  god  of  the  river,  as  if  in  pity,  stayed  his  current 
and  smoothed  his  waters,  to  make  his  lauding  more  easy ; 
for  sacred  to  the  ever-living  deities  of  the  fresh  waters, 
be  they  mountain-stream,  river,  or  lake,  is  the  cry  of 
erring  mortals  that  seek  their  aid,  by  reason  that  being 
inland-bred  they  partake  more  of  the  gentle  humanities 
of  our  nature  than  those  marine  deities,  whom  Neptune 
trains  up  in  tempests  in  the  un  pity  ing  recesses  of  his  salt 


So  by  the  favour  of  the  river's  god  Ulysses  crept  to 
land  half-drowned ;  both  his  knees  faltering,  his  strong 
hands  falling  down  through  weakness  from  the  excessive 
toils  he  had  endured,  his  cheek  and  nostrils  flowing  with 
froth  of  the  sea-brine,  much  of  which  he  had  swallowed 
in  that  conflict,  voice  and  breath  spent,  down  he  sank  as 
in  death.  Dead  weary  he  was.  It  seemed  that  the  sea 
had  soaked  through  his  heart,  and  the  pains  he  felt  in 
all  his  veins  were  little  less  than  those  which  one  feels 
that  has  endured  the  torture  of  the  rack.  But  when  his 
spirits  came  a  little  to  themselves,  and  his  recollection  by 
degrees  began  to  return,  he  rose  up,  and  unloosing  from 
his  waist  the  girdle  or  charm  which  that  divine  bird  had 
given  him,  and  remembering  the  charge  which  he  had 
received  with  it,  he  flung  it  far  from  him  into  the  river. 
Back  it  swam  with  the  course  of  the  ebbing  stream  till  it 
reached  the  sea,  where  the  fair  hands  of  Ino  Leucothea 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  133 

received  it  to  keep  it  as  a  pledge  of  safety  to  any  future 
shipwrecked  mariner  that  like  Ulysses  should  wander  in 
those  periloiis  waves. 

Then  he  kissed  the  humble  earth  in  token  of  safety, 
and  on  he  went  by  the  side  of  that  pleasant  river  till  he 
came  where  a  thicker  shade  of  rushes  that  grew  on  its 
banks  seemed  to  point  out  the  place  where  he  might  rest 
his  sea -wearied  limbs.  And  here  a  fresh  perplexity 
divided  his  mind,  whether  he  should  pass  the  night, 
which  was  coming  on,  in  that  place,  where,  though  he 
feared  no  other  enemies,  the  damps  and  frosts  of  the  chill 
sea-air  in  that  exposed  situation  might  be  death  to  him 
in  his  weak  state ;  or  whether  he  had  better  climb  the 
next  hill,  and  pierce  the  depth  of  some  shady  wood,  in 
which  he  might  find  a  warm  and  sheltered  though  insecure 
repose,  subject  to  the  approach  of  any  wild  beast  that 
roamed  that  way.  Best  did  this  last  course  appear  to 
him,  though  with  some  danger,  as  that  which  was  more 
honourable  and  savoured  more  of  strife  and  self-exertion, 
than  to  perish  without  a  struggle  the  passive  victim  of 
cold  and  the  elements. 

So  he  bent  his  course  to  the  nearest  woods,  where, 
entering  in,  he  found  a  thicket,  mostly  of  wild  olives  and 
such  low  trees,  yet  growing  so  intertwined  and  knit  to- 
gether that  the  moist  wind  had  not  leave  to  play  through 
their  branches,  nor  the  sun's  scorching  beams  to  pierce 
their  recesses,  nor  any  shower  to  beat  through,  they  grew 
so  thick  and  as  it  were  folded  each  in  the  other ;  here 
creeping  in,  he  made  his  bed  of  the  leaves  which  were 
beginning  to  fall,  of  which  was  such  abundance  that  two 
or  three  men  might  have  spread  them  ample  coverings, 
such  as  might  shield  them  from  the  winter's  rage,  though 
the  air  breathed  steel  and  blew  as  it  would  burst.  Here 
creeping  in,  he  heaped  up  store  of  leaves  all  about  him, 
as  a  man  would  billets  upon  a  winter  fire,  and  lay  down 
in  the  midst.  Rich  seed  of  virtue  lying  hid  in  poor 
leaves  !  Here  Minerva  soon  gave  him  sound  sleep ;  and 
here  all  his  long  toils  past  seemed  to  be  concluded  and 


134       THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

shut  up  within  the  little  sphere  of  his  refreshed  and 
closed  eyelids. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  princess  Nansiraa — The  washing — The  game  with  the  ball — > 
The  Court  of  Phseacia  ami  king  Alcinous. 

MEANTIME  Minerva,  designing  an  interview  between  the 
king's  daughter  of  that  country  and  Ulysses  when  he 
should  awake,  went  by  night  to  the  palace  of  king 
Alciuous,  and  stood  at  the  bedside  of  the  princess 
Nausicaa  in  the  shape  of  one  of  her  favourite  attendants, 
and  thus  addressed  the  sleeping  princess. 

"  Nausicaa,  why  do  you  lie  sleeping  here,  and  never 
bestow  a  thought  upon  your  bridal  ornameuts,  of  which 
you  have  many  and  beautiful,  laid  up  in  your  wardrobe 
against  the  day  of  your  marriage,  which  cannot  be  far 
distant ;  when  you  shall  have  need  of  all,  not  only  to 
deck  your  own  person,  but  to  give  away  in  presents  to 
the  virgins  that  honouring  you  shall  attend  you  to  the 
temple  ?  Your  reputation  stands  much  upon  the  timely 
care  of  these  things ;  these  things  are  they  which  fill 
father  and  reverend  mother  with  delight.  Let  us  arise 
betimes  to  wash  your  fair  vestments  of  linen  and  silks  in 
the  river ;  and  request  your  sire  to  lend  you  mules  and 
a  coach,  for  your  wardrobe  is  heavy,  and  the  place  where 
we  must  wash  is  distant,  and  besides  it  fits  not  a  great 
princess  like  you  to  go  so  far  on  foot." 

So  saying  she  went  away,  and  Nausicaa  awoke,  full  of 
pleasing  thoughts  of  her  marriage,  which  the  dream  had 
told  her  was  not  far  distant :  and  as  soon  as  it  was 
dawn,  she  arose  and  dressed  herself  and  went  to  find  her 
parents. 

The  queen  her  mother  was  already  up,  and  seated 
among  her  maids,  spinning  at  hej  wheel,  as  the  fashion 
was  in  those  primitive  times,  when  great  ladies  did  not 
disdain  housewifery ;  and  the  king  her  father  was  pre- 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.       135 

paring  to  go  abroad  at  that  early  hour  to  council  with 
his  grave  senate. 

"  My  father,"  she  said,  "  will  you  not  order  mules  and 
a  coach  to  be  got  ready,  that  I  may  go  and  wash,  I  and 
my  maids,  at  the  cisterns  that  stand  without  the  city  1" 

"What  washing  does  my  daughter  speak  of?"  said 
Alcinous. 

"  Mine  and  my  brothers'  garments,"  she  replied,  "  that 
have  contracted  soil  by  this  time  with  lying  by  so  long 
in  the  wardrobe.  Five  sons  have  you,  that  are  my 
brothers ;  two  of  them  are  married,  and  three  are 
bachelors ;  these  last  it  concerns  to  have  their  garments 
neat  and  unsoiled ;  it  may  advance  their  fortunes  in 
marriage  :  and  who  but  I  their  sister  should  have  a  care 
of  these  things  ?  You  yourself,  my  father,  have  need  of 
the  whitest  apparel,  when  you  go,  as  now,  to  the  council." 

She  used  this  plea,  modestly  dissembling  her  care  of 
her  own  nuptials  to  her  father ;  who  was  not  displeased 
at  this  instance  of  his  daughter's  discretion  :  for  a  season- 
able care  about  marriage  may  be  permitted  to  a  young 
maiden,  provided  it  to  be  accompanied  with  modesty  and 
dutiful  submission  to  her  parents  in  the  choice  of  her 
future  husband  :  and  there  was  no  fear  of  Nausicaa 
choosing  wrongly  or  improperly,  for  she  was  as  wise  as 
she  was  beautiful,  and  the  best  in  all  Phseacia  were 
suitors  to  her  for  her  love.  So  Alcinous  readily  gave 
consent  that  she  should  go,  ordering  mules  and  a  coach 
to  be  prepared.  And  Nausicaa  brought  from  her  chamber 
all  her  vestments,  and  laid  them  up  in  the  coach,  and 
her  mother  placed  bread  and  wine  in  the  coach,  and  oil 
in  a  golden  cruse,  to  so/ten  the  bright  skins  of  Nausicaa 
and  her  maids  when  they  came  out  of  the  river. 

Nausicaa  making  her  maids  get  up  into  the  coach 
with  her,  lashed  the  mules,  till  they  brought  her  to  the 
cisterns  which  stood  a  little  on  the  outside  of  the  town, 
and  were  supplied  with  water  from  the  river  Calliroe. 

There  her  attendants  unyoked  the  mules,  took  out  the 
clothes,  and  steeped  them  in  the  cisterns,  washing  them 


136  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

in  several  waters,  and  afterwards  treading  them  clean 
with  their  feet,  venturing  wagers  who  should  have  done 
soonest  and  cleanest,  and  using  many  pretty  pastimes  to 
beguile  their  labour  as  young  maids  use,  while  the 
princess  looked  on.  When  they  had  laid  their  clothes 
to  dry,  they  fell  to  playing  again,  and  Nausicaa  joined 
them  in  a  game  with  the  ball,  which  is  used  in  that 
country,  which  is  performed  by  tossing  the  ball  from 
hand  to  hand  with  great  expedition,  she  who  begins  the 
pastime  singing  a  song.  It  chanced  that  the  princess, 
whose  turn  it  became  to  toss  the  ball,  sent  it  so  far  from 
its  mark,  that  it  fell  beyond  into  one  of  the  cisterns  of 
the  river :  at  which  the  whole  company,  in  merry  con- 
sternation, set  up  a  shriek  so  loud  as  waked  the  sleeping 
Ulysses,  who  was  taking  his  rest,  after  his  long  toils,  in 
the  woods  not  far  distant  from  the  place  where  these 
young  maids  had  come  to  wash. 

At  the  sound  of  female  voices  Ulysses  crept  forth 
from  his  retirement,  making  himself  a  covering  with 
boughs  and  leaves  as  well  as  he  could  to  shroud  his 
nakedness.  The  sudden  appearance  of  his  weather-beaten 
and  almost  naked  form  so  frighted  the  maidens  that  they 
scudded  away  into  the  woods  and  all  about  to  hide  them- 
selves, only  Minerva  (who  had  brought  about  this  inter- 
view to  admirable  purposes,  by  seemingly  accidental 
means)  put  courage  into  the  breast  of  Nausicaa,  and  she 
stayed  where  she  was,  and  resolved  to  know  what  manner 
of  man  he  was,  and  what  was  the  occasion  of  his  strange 
coming  to  them. 

He  not  venturing  (for  delicacy)  to  approach  and  clasp 
her  knees,  as  suppliants  should,  but  standing  far  off, 
addressed  this  speech  to  the  young  princess. 

"Before  I  presume  rudely  to  press  my  petitions,  I 
should  first  ask  whether  I  am  addressing  a  mortal  woman, 
or  one  of  the  goddesses.  If  a  goddess,  you  seem  to  me 
to  be  likest  to  Diana,  the  chaste  huntress,  the  daughter 
of  Jove.  Like  hers  are  your  lineaments,  your  stature, 
your  features,  and  air  divine." 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  137 

She  making  answer  that  she  was  no  goddess,  but  a 
mortal  maid,  he  continued  : 

"  If  a  woman,  thrice  blessed  are  both  the  authors  of 
your  birth,  thrice  blessed  are  your  brothers,  who  even  to 
rapture  must  have  joy  in  your  perfections,  to  see  you 
grown  so  like  a  young  tree,  and  so  graceful.  But  most 
blessed  of  all  that  breathe  is  he  that  has  the  gift  to 
engage  your  young  neck  in  the  yoke  of  marriage.  I  never 
saw  that  man  that  was  worthy  of  you.  I  never  saw  man 
or  woman  that  at  all  parts  equalled  you.  Lately  at 
Delos  (where  I  touched)  I  saw  a  young  palm  which  grew 
beside  Apollo's  temple ;  it  exceeded  all  the  trees  which 
ever  I  beheld  for  straightness  and  beauty  :  I  can  compare 
you  only  to  that.  A  stupor  past  admiration  strikes  me, 
joined  with  fear,  which  keeps  me  back  from  approaching 
you,  to  embrace  your  knees.  Nor  is  it  strange ;  for  one 
of  freshest  and  firmest  spirit  would  falter,  approaching 
near  to  so  bright  an  object :  but  I  am  one  whom  a  cruel 
habit  of  calamity  has  prepared  to  receive  strong  impres- 
sions. Twenty  days  the  unrelenting  seas  have  tossed  me 
up  and  down  coming  from  Ogygia,  and  at  length  cast  me 
shipwrecked  last  night  upon  your  coast.  I  have  seen  no 
man  or  woman  since  I  landed  but  yourself.  All  that  I 
crave  is  clothes,  which  you  may  spare  me,  and  to  be 
shown  the  way  to  some  neighbouring  town.  The  gods 
who  have  care  of  strangers,  will  requite  you  for  these 
courtesies." 

She,  admiring  to  hear  such  complimentary  words  pro- 
ceed out  of  the  mouth  of  one  whose  outside  looked  so 
rough  and  unpromising,  made  answer :  "  Stranger,  I  dis- 
cern neither  sloth  nor  folly  in  you,  and  yet  I  see  that  you 
are  poor  and  wretched ;  from  which  I  gather  that  neither 
wisdom  nor  industry  can  secure  felicity ;  only  Jove 
bestows  it  upon  whomsoever  he  pleases.  He  perhaps  has 
reduced  you  to  this  plight.  However,  since  your  wander- 
ings have  brought  you  so  near  to  our  city,  it  lies  in  our 
duty  to  supply  your  wants.  Clothes  and  what  else  a 
human  hand  should  give  to  one  so  suppliant,  and  so 


138       THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

tamed  with  calamity,  you  shall  not  want.  "We  will  show 
you  our  city  and  tell  you  the  name  of  our  people.  This 
is  the  land  of  the  Phaeacians,  of  which  rny  father  Alciuous 
is  king." 

Then  calling  her  attendants,  who  had  dispersed  on  the 
first  sight  of  Ulysses,  she  rebuked  them  for  their  fear, 
and  said :  "  This  man  is  no  Cyclop,  nor  monster  of  sea 
or  land,  that  you  should  fear  him ;  but  he  seems 
manly,  staid,  and  discreet,  and  though  decayed  in  his 
outward  appearance,  yet  he  has  the  mind's  riches, — wit 
and  fortitude,  in  abundance.  Show  him  the  cisterns 
where  he  may  wash  him  from  the  sea-weeds  and  foam 
that  hang  about  him,  and  let  him  have  garments  that 
fit  him  out  of  those  which  we  have  brought  with  us  to 
the  cisterns." 

Ulysses,  retiring  a  little  out  of  sight,  cleansed  him  in 
the  cisterns  from  the  soil  and  impurities  with  which  the 
rocks  and  waves  had  covered  all  his  body,  and  clothing 
himself  with  befitting  raiment,  which  the  princess' 
attendants  had  given  him,  he  presented  himself  in  more 
worthy  shape  to  Nausicaa.  She  admired  to  see  what  a 
comely  personage  he  was,  now  he  was  dressed  in  all  parts ; 
she  thought  him  some  king  or  hero  :  and  secretly  wished 
that  the  gods  would  be  pleased  to  give  her  such  a 
husband. 

Then  causing  her  attendants  to  yoke  her  mules,  and 
lay  up  the  vestments,  which  the  sun's  heat  had  sufficiently 
dried,  in  the  coach,  she  ascended  with  her  maids,  and 
drove  off  to  the  palace ;  bidding  Ulysses,  as  she  departed, 
keep  an  eye  upon  the  coach,  and  to  follow  it  on  foot  at 
some  distance :  which  she  did,  because  if  she  had  suffered 
him  to  have  rode  in  the  coach  with  her,  it  might  have 
subjected  her  to  some  misconstructions  of  the  common 
people,  who  are  always  ready  to  vilify  and  censure  their 
betters,  and  to  suspect  that  charity  is  not  always  pure 
charity,  but  that  love  or  some  sinister  intention  lies  hid 
under  its  disguise.  So  discreet  and  attentive  to  appear- 
ance in  all  her  actions  was  this  admirable  princess. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  139 

Ulysses,  as  he  entered  the  city,  wondered  to  see  its 
magnificence,  its  markets,  buildings,  temples ;  its  walls 
and  rampires  ;  its  trade  and  resort  of  men  ;  its  harbours 
for  shipping,  which  is  the  strength  of  the  Phseacian  state. 
But  when  he  approached  the  palace,  and  beheld  its  riches, 
the  proportion  of  its  architecture,  its  avenues,  gardens, 
statues,  fountains,  he  stood  rapt  in  admiration,  and 
almost  forgot  his  own  condition  in  surveying  the  nourish- 
ing estate  of  others  :  but  recollecting  himself,  he  passed 
on  boldly  into  the  inner  apartment,  where  the  king  and 
queen  were  sitting  at  dinner  with  their  peers ;  Nausicaa 
having  prepared  them  for  his  approach. 

To  them,  humbly  kneeling,  he  made  it  his  request,  that 
since  fortune  had  cast  him  naked  upon  their  shores,  they 
would  take  him  into  their  protection,  and  grant  him  a 
conveyance  by  one  of  the  ships,  of  which  their  great 
Phasacian  state  had  such  good  store,  to  carry  him  to  his 
own  country.  Having  delivered  his  request,  to  grace  it 
with  more  humility,  he  went  and  sat  himself  down  upon 
the  hearth  among  the  ashes,  as  the  custom  was  in  those 
days  when  any  would  make  a  petition  to  the  throne. 

He  seemed  a  petitioner  of  so  great  state  and  of  so 
superior  a  deportment,  that  Alcinous  himself  arose  to  do 
him  honour,  and  causing  him  to  leave  that  abject  station 
which  he  had  assumed,  placed  him  next  to  his  throne, 
upon  a  chair  of  state,  and  thus  he  spake  to  his  peers : 

"Lords  and  counsellors  of  Phaeacia,  ye  see  this  man, 
who  he  is  we  know  not,  that  is  come  to  us  in  the  guise 
of  a  petitioner  :  he  seems  no  mean  one ;  but  whoever  he 
is,  it  is  fit,  since  the  gods  have  cast  him  upon  our  protec- 
tion, that  we  grant  him  the  rites  of  hospitality  while  he 
stays  with  us,  and  at  his  departure  a  ship  well  manned 
to  convey  so  worthy  a  personage  as  he  seems  to  be  in  a 
manner  suitable  to  his  rank,  to  his  own  country." 

This  counsel  the  peers  with  one  consent  approved ; 
and  wine  and  meat  being  set  before  Ulysses,  he  ate  and 
drank,  and  gave  the  gods  thanks  who  had  stirred  up  the 
royal  bounty  of  Alciuous  to  aid  him  in  that  extremity. 


140  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

But  not  as  yet  did  he  reveal  to  the  king  and  queen  who 
he  was,  or  whence  he  had  come ;  only  in  brief  terms  he 
related  his  being  cast  upon  their  shores,  his  sleep  in  the 
woods,  and  his  meeting  with  the  princess  Nausicaa : 
whose  generosity,  mingled  with  discretion,  filled  her 
parents  with  delight,  as  Ulysses  in  eloquent  phrases 
adorned  and  commended  her  virtues.  But  Alcinous, 
humanely  considering  that  the  troubles  which  his  guest 
had  undergone  required  rest,  as  well  as  refreshment  by 
food,  dismissed  him  early  in  the  evening  to  his  chamber ; 
where  in  a  magnificent  apartment  Ulysses  found  a 
smoother  bed,  but  not  a  sounder  repose,  than  he  had 
enjoyed  the  night  before,  sleeping  upon  leaves  which  he 
had  scraped  together  in  his  necessity 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  songs  of  Demodocus — The  convoy  home — The  mariners  trans- 
formed to  stone — The  young  shepherd. 

WHEN  it  was  day-light,  Alcinous  caused  it  to  be  pro- 
claimed by  the  heralds  about  the  town  that  there  was 
come  to  the  palace  a  stranger,  shipwrecked  on  their  coast, 
that  in  mien  and  person  resembled  a  god ;  and  inviting 
all  the  chief  people  of  the  city  to  come  and  do  honour  to 
the  stranger. 

The  palace  was  quickly  filled  with  guests,  old  and 
young,  for  whose  cheer,  and  to  grace  Ulysses  more, 
Alcinous  made  a  kingly  feast,  with  banquetings  and 
music.  Then  Ulysses  being  seated  at  a  table  next  the 
king  and  queen,  in  all  men's  view ;  after  they  had  feasted, 
Alcinous  ordered  Demodocus,  the  court-singer,  to  be  called 
to  sing  some  song  of  the  deeds  of  heroes,  to  charm  the 
ear  of  his  guest.  Demodocus  came  and  reached  his  harp, 
where  it  hung  between  two  pillars  of  silver ;  and  then 
the  blind  singer,  to  whom,  in  recompense  of  his  lost 
sight,  the  muses  had  given  an  inward  discernment,  a 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  141 

soul  and  a  voice  to  excite  the  hearts  of  men  and  gods  to 
delight,  began  in  grave  and  solemn  strains  to  sing  the 
glories  of  men  highliest  famed.  He  chose  a  poem,  whose 
subject  was  the  stern  strife  stirred  up  between  Ulysses 
and  great  Achilles,  as  at  a  banquet  sacred  to  the  gods  in 
dreadful  language  they  expressed  their  difference ;  while 
Agamemnon  sat  rejoiced  in  soul  to  hear  those  Grecians 
jar :  for  the  oracle  in  Pytho  had  told  him  that  the  period 
of  their  wars  in  Troy  should  then  be,  when  the  kings  of 
Greece,  anxious  to  arrive  at  the  wished  conclusion,  should 
fall  to  strife,  and  contend  which  must  end  the  war,  force 
or  stratagem. 

This  brave  contention  he  expressed  so  to  the  life,  in 
the  very  words  which  they  both  used  in  the  quarrel,  as 
brought  tears  into  the  eyes  of  Ulysses  at  the  remembrance 
of  past  passages  of  his  life,  and  he  held  his  large  purple 
weed  before  his  face  to  conceal  it.  Then  craving  a  cup 
of  wine,  he  poured  it  out  in  secret  libation  to  the  gods, 
who  had  put  into  the  mind  of  Demodocus  unknowingly 
to  do  him  so  much  honour.  But  when  the  moving  poet 
began  to  tell  of  other  occurrences  where  Ulysses  had 
been  present,  the  memory  of  his  brave  followers  who  had 
been  with  him  in  all  difficulties,  now  swallowed  up  and 
lost  in  the  ocean,  and  of  those  kings  that  had  fought 
with  him  at  Troy,  some  of  whom  were  dead,  some  exiles 
like  himself,  forced  itself  so  strongly  upon  his  mind,  that 
forgetful  where  he  was,  he  sobbed  outright  with  passion ; 
which  yet  he  restrained,  but  not  so  cunningly  but  Alciiious 
perceived  it,  and  without  taking  notice  of  it  to  Ulysses, 
privately  gave  signs  that  Demodocus  should  cease  from 
his  singing. 

Next  followed  dancing  in  the  Phseacian  fashion,  when 
they  would  show  respect  to  their  guests ;  which  was 
succeeded  by  trials  of  skill,  games  of  strength,  running, 
racing,  hurling  of  the  quoit,  mock  fights,  hurling  of  the 
javelin,  shooting  with  the  bow ;  in  some  of  which  Ulysses 
modestly  challenging  his  entertainers,  performed  such 
feats  of  strength  and  prowess  as  gave  the  admiring 


142  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

Phseacians  fresh  reason  to  imagine  that  he  was  either 
some  god  or  hero  of  the  race  of  the  gods. 

These  solemn  shows  and  pageants  in  honour  of  his 
guest,  king  Alcinous  continued  for  the  space  of  many 
days,  as  if  he  could  never  be  weary  of  showing  courtesies 
to  so  worthy  a  stranger.  In  all  this  time  he  never  asked 
him  his  name,  nor  sought  to  know  more  of  him  than  lie 
of  his  own  accord  disclosed :  till  on  a  clay  as  they  were 
seated  feasting,  after  the  feast  was  ended,  Demodocus 
being  called,  as  was  the  custom,  to  sing  some  grave 
matter,  sang  how  Ulysses,  on  that  night  when  Troy  was 
fired,  made  dreadful  proof  of  his  valour,  maintaining 
singly  a  combat  against  the  whole  household  of  Deipho- 
bus,  to  which  the  divine  expresser  gave  both  act  and 
passion,  and  breathed  such  a  fire  into  Ulysses'  deeds, 
that  it  inspired  old  death  with  life  in  the  lively  express- 
ing of  slaughters,  and  rendered  life  so  sweet  and  passionate 
in  the  hearers,  that  all  who  heard  felt  it  fleet  from  them 
in  the  narration  :  which  made  Ulysses  even  pity  his  own 
slaughterous  deeds,  and  feel  touches  of  remorse,  to  see 
how  song  can  revive  a  dead  man  from  the  grave,  yet  no 
way  can  it  defend  a  living  man  from  death :  and  in 
imagination  he  underwent  some  part  of  death's  horrors, 
and  felt  in  his  living  body  a  taste  of  those  dying  pangs 
which  he  had  dealt  to  others ;  that  with  the  strong  con- 
ceit, tears  (the  true  interpreters  of  unutterable  emotion) 
stood  in  his  eyes. 

Which,  king  Alcinous  noting,  and  that  this  was  now 
the  second  time  that  he  had  perceived  him  to  be  moved 
at  the  mention  of  events  touching  the  Trojan  wars,  he 
took  occasion  to  ask  whether  his  guest  had  lost  any  friend 
or  kinsman  at  Troy,  that  Demodocus'  singing  had 
brought  into  his  mind.  Then  Ulysses,  drying  the  tears 
with  his  cloak,  and  observing  that  the  eyes  of  all  the 
company  were  upon  him,  desirous  to  give  them  satisfac- 
tion in  what  he  could,  and  thinking  this  a  fit  time  to 
reveal  his  true  name  and  destination,  spake  as  follows : 

"  The  courtesies  which  ye  all  have  shown  me,  and  in 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  143 

particular  yourself  and  princely  daughter,  0  king  Alcinous, 
demand  from  me  that  I  should  no  longer  keep  you  in 
ignorance  of  what  or  who  I  am  ;  for  to  reserve  any  secret 
from  you,  who  have  with  such  openness  of  friendship 
embraced  my  love,  would  argue  either  a  pusillanimous 
or  an  ungrateful  mind  in  me.  Know  then  that  I  am 
that  Ulysses,  of  whom  I  perceive  ye  have  heard  some- 
thing ;  who  heretofore  have  filled  the  world  with  the 
renown  of  my  policies.  I  am  he  by  whose  counsels,  if 
Fame  is  to  be  believed  at  all,  more  than  by  the  united 
valour  of  all  the  Grecians,  Troy  fell.  I  am  that  unhappy 
man  whom  the  heavens  and  angry  gods  have  conspired  to 
keep  an  exile  on  the  seas,  wandering  to  seek  my  home 
which  still  flies  from  me.  The  land  which  I  am  in  quest 
of  is  Ithaca ;  in  whose  ports  some  ship  belonging  to  your 
navigation-famed  Phseacian  state  may  haply  at  some  time 
have  found  a  refuge  from  tempests.  If  ever  you  have 
experienced  such  kindness,  requite  it  now,  by  granting 
to  me,  who  am  the  king  of  that  land,  a  passport  to  that 
land. 

Admiration  seized  all  the  court  of  Alcinous  to  behold 
in  their  presence  one  of  the  number  of  those  heroes  who 
fought  at  Troy,  whose  divine  story  had  been  made  known 
to  them  by  songs  and  poems,  but  of  the  truth  they  had 
little  known,  or  rather  they  had  hitherto  accounted  those 
heroic  exploits  as  fictions  and  exaggerations  of  poets ;  but 
having  seen  and  made  proof  of  the  real  Ulysses,  they 
began  to  take  those  supposed  inventions  to  be  real  verities, 
and  the  tale  of  Troy  to  be  as  true  as  it  was  delightful. 

Then  king  Alcinous  made  answer  :  "  Thrice  fortunate 
ought  we  to  esteem  our  lot,  in  having  seen  and  conversed 
with  a  man  of  whom  report  hath  spoken  so  loudly,  but, 
as  it  seems,  nothing  beyond  the  truth.  Though  we  could 
desire  no  felicity  greater  than  to  have  you  always  among 
us,  renowned  Ulysses,  yet  your  desire  having  been  ex- 
pressed so  often  and  so  deeply  to  return  home,  we  can 
deny  you  nothing,  though  to  our  own  loss.  Onr  kingdom 
of  Phseacia,  as  you  know,  is  chiefly  rich  in  shipping.  In 


144  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

all  parts  of  the  world,  where  there  are  navigable  seas,  or 
ships  can  pass,  our  vessels  will  be  found.  You  cannot 
name  a  coast  to  which  they  do  not  resort.  Every  rock 
and  deep  quicksand  is  known  to  them  that  lurks  in  the 
vast  deep.  They  pass  a  bird  in  flight ;  and  with  such 
unerring  certainty  they  make  to  their  destination,  that 
some  have  said  they  have  no  need  of  pilot  or  rudder,  but 
that  they  move  instinctively,  self-directed,  and  know  the 
minds  of  their  voyagers.  Thus  much,  that  you  may  not 
fear  to  trust  yourself  in  one  of  our  Phseacian  ships.  To- 
morrow if  you  please  you  shall  launch  forth.  To-day 
spend  with  us  in  feasting:  who  never  can  do  enough 
when  the  gods  send  such  visitors." 

Ulysses  acknowledged  king  Alcinous'  bounty;  and 
while  these  two  royal  personages  stood  interchanging 
courteous  expressions,  the  heart  of  the  princess  Nausicaa 
was  overcome ;  she  had  been  gazing  attentively  upon  her 
father's  guest  as  he  delivered  his  speech,  but  when  he 
came  to  that  part  where  he  declared  himself  to  be  Ulysses, 
she  blessed  herself  and  her  fortune  that  in  relieving  a 
poor  shipwrecked  mariner,  as  he  seemed  no  better,  she 
had  conferred  a  kindness  on  so  divine  a  hero  as  he  proved  : 
and  scarce  waiting  till  her  father  had  done  speaking, 
with  a  cheerful  countenance  she  addressed  Ulysses,  bid- 
ding him  be  cheerful,  and  when  he  returned  home,  as  by 
her  father's  means  she  trusted  he  would  shortly,  some- 
times to  remember  to  whom  he  owed  his  life,  and  who 
met  him  in  the  woods  by  the  river  Calliroe. 

"  Fair  flower  of  Phseacia,"  he  replied,  "  so  may  all  the 
gods  bless  me  with  the  strife  of  joys  in  that  desired  day, 
whenever  I  shall  see  it,  as  I  shall  always  acknowledge  to 
be  indebted  to  your  fair  hand  for  the  gift  of  life  which  I 
enjoy,  and  all  the  blessings  which  shall  follow  upon  my 
home  return.  The  gods  give  thee,  Nausicaa,  a  princely 
husband ;  and  from  you  two  spring  blessings  to  this 
state."  So  prayed  Ulysses,  his  heart  overflowing  with 
admiration  and  grateful  recollections  of  king  Alcinous' 
daughter. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  145 

Then  at  the  king's  request  he  gave  them  a  brief  rela- 
tion of  all  the  adventures  that  had  befallen  him  since  he 
launched  forth  from  Troy,  during  which  the  princess 
Nausicaa  took  great  delight  (as  ladies  are  commonly 
taken  with  these  kind  of  travellers'  stories)  to  hear  of 
the  monster  Polyphemus,  of  the  men  that  devour  each 
other  in  Lsestrygonia,  of  the  enchantress  Circe,  of  Scylla, 
and  the  rest;  to  which  she  listened  with  a  breathless 
attention,  letting  fall  a  shower  of  tears  from  her  fair  eyes 
every  now  and  then,  when  Ulysses  told  of  some  more 
than  usual  distressful  passage  in  his  travels  :  and  all  the 
rest  of  his  auditors,  if  they  had  before  entertained  a  high 
respect  for  their  guest,  now  felt  their  veneration  increased 
tenfold,  when  they  learnt  from  his  own  mouth  what 
perils,  what  sufferings,  what  endurance,  of  evils  beyond 
man's  strength  to  support,  this  much-sustaining,  almost 
heavenly  man,  by  the  greatness  of  his  mind,  and  by  his 
invincible  courage,  had  struggled  through. 

The  night  was  far  spent  before  Ulysses  had  ended  his 
narrative,  and  with  wishful  glances  he  cast  his  eyes 
towards  the  eastern  parts,  which  the  sun  had  begun  to 
flecker  with  his  first  red  :  for  on  the  morrow  Alcinous  had 
promised  that  a  bark  should  be  in  readiness  to  convoy 
him  to  Ithaca. 

In  the  morning  a  vessel  well  manned  and  appointed 
was  waiting  for  him ;  into  which  the  king  and  queen 
heaped  presents  of  gold  and  silver,  massy  plate,  apparel, 
armour,  and  whatsoever  things  of  cost  or  rarity  they 
judged  would  be  most  acceptable  to  their  guest :  and  the 
sails  being  set,  Ulysses  embarking  with  expressions  of 
regret  took  his  leave  of  his  royal  entertainers,  of  the  fair 
princess  (who  had  been  his  first  friend),  and  of  the  peers 
of  Phseacia ;  who  crowding  down  to  the  beach  to  have 
the  last  sight  of  their  illustrious  visitant,  beheld  the 
gallant  ship  with  all  her  canvas  spread,  bounding  and 
curveting  over  the  waves,  like  a  horse  proud  of  his  rider ; 
or  as  if  she  knew  that  in  her  capacious  womb's  rich 
freightage  she  bore  Ulysses. 

L 


146       THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

He  whose  life  past  bad  been  a  series  of  disquiets,  in 
seas  among  rude  «waves,  in  battles  amongst  ruder  foes, 
now  slept  securely,  forgetting  all ;  his  eyelids  bound  in 
such  deep  sleep,  as  only  yielded  to  death  ;  and  when  they 
reached  the  nearest  Ithacan  port  by  the  next  morning, 
he  was  still  asleep.  The  mariners  not  willing  to  awake 
him,  landed  him  softly,  and  laid  him  in  a  cave  at  the 
foot  of  an  olive-tree,  which  made  a  shady  recess  in  that 
narrow  harbour,  the  haunt  of  almost  none  but  the  sea- 
nymphs,  which  are  called  Naiads ;  few  ships  before  this 
Phseacian  vessel  having  put  into  that  haven,  by  reason 
of  the  difficulty  and  narrowness  of  the  entrance.  Here 
leaving  him  asleep,  and  disposing  in  safe  places  near  him 
the  presents  with  which  king  Alcinous  had  dismissed 
him,  they  departed  for  Phseacia ;  where  these  wretched 
mariners  never  again  set  foot ;  but  just  as  they  arrived, 
and  thought  to  salute  their  country  earth ;  in  sight  of 
their  city's  turrets,  and  in  open  view  of  their  friends  who 
from  the  harbour  with  shouts  greeted  their  return ;  their 
vessel  and  all  the  mariners  which  were  in  her  were 
turned  to  stone,  and  stood  transformed  and  fixed  in  sight 
of  the  whole  Phseacian  city,  where  it  yet  stands,  by 
Neptune's  vindictive  wrath ;  who  resented  thus  highly 
the  contempt  which  those  Phaeacians  had  shown  in  con- 
voying home  a  man  whom  the  god  had  destined  to 
destruction.  Whence  it  comes  to  pass  that  the  Phseacians 
at  this  day  will  at  no  price  be  induced  to  lend  their  ships 
to  strangers,  or  to  become  the  carriers  for  other  nations, 
so  highly  do  they  still  dread  the  displeasure  of  the  sea- 
god,  while  they  see  that  terrible  monument  ever  in 
sight. 

When  Ulysses  awoke,  which  was  not  till  some  time 
after  the  mariners  had  departed,  he  did  not  at  first  know 
his  country  again,  either  that  long  absence  had  made  it 
strange,  or  that  Minerva  (which  was  more  likely)  had 
cast  a  cloud  about  his  eyes,  that  he  should  have  greater 
pleasure  hereafter  in  discovering  his  mistake :  but  like  a 
man  suddenly  awaking  in  some  desert  isle,  to  which  his 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  147 

sea-mates  have  transported  him  in  his  sleep,  he  looked 
around,  and  discerning  no  known  objects,  he  cast  his 
hands  to  heaven  for  pity,  and  complained  on  those  ruth- 
less men  who  had  beguiled  him  with  a  promise  of  con- 
veying him  home  to  his  country,  and  perfidiously  left  him 
to  perish  in  an  unknown  land.  But  then  the  rich  presents 
of  gold  and  silver  given  him  by  Alcinous,  which  he  saw 
carefully  laid  up  in  secure  places  near  him,  staggered 
him  :  which  seemed  not  like  the  act  of  wrongful  or  unjust 
men,  such  as  turn  pirates  for  gain,  or  land  helpless  pas- 
sengers in  remote  coasts  to  possess  themselves  of  their 
goods. 

While  he  remained  in  this  suspense,  there  came  up  to 
him  a  young  shepherd,  clad  in  the  finer  sort  of  apparel, 
such  as  kings'  sons  wore  in  those  days  when  princes  did 
not  disdain  to  tend  sheep,  who  accosting  him,  was  saluted 
again  by  Ulysses,  who  asked  him  what  country  that  was, 
on  which  he  had  been  just  landed,  and  whether  it  were 
a  part  of  a  continent  or  an  island.  The  young  shepherd 
made  show  of  wonder,  to  hear  any  one  ask  the  name  of 
that  land ;  as  country  people  are  apt  to  esteem  those  for 
mainly  ignorant  and  barbarous  who  do  not  know  the 
names  of  places  which  are  familiar  to  them,  though  per- 
haps they  who  ask  have  had  no  opportunities  of  knowing, 
and  may  have  come  from  far  countries. 

"  I  had  thought,"  said  he,  "  that  all  people  knew  our 
land.  It  is  rocky  and  barren,  to  be  sure;  but  well 
enough  :  it  feeds  a  goat  or  an  ox  well :  it  is  not  wanting 
neither  in  wine  nor  in  wheat ;  it  has  good  springs  of 
water,  some  fair  rivers ;  and  wood  enough,  as  you  may 
fee  :  it  is  called  Ithaca." 

Ulysses  was  joyed  enough  to  find  himself  in  his  own 
country ;  but  so  prudently  he  carried  his  joy,  that  dis- 
sembling his  true  name  and  quality,  he  pretended  to  the 
shepherd  that  he  was  only  some  foreigner  who  by  stress 
of  weather  had  put  into  that  port :  and  framed  on  the 
sudden  a  story  to  make  it  plausible,  how  he  had  come 
from  Crete  in  a  ship  of  Phseacia;  when  the  young  shep- 


148  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

herd  laughing,  and  taking  Ulysses'  hand  in  both  his, 
said  to  him :  "  He  must  be  cunning,  I  find,  who  thinks 
to  overreach  you.  What,  cannot  you  quit  your  wiles  and 
your  subtleties,  now  that  you  are  in  a  state  of  security  ? 
must  the  first  word  with  which  you  salute  your  native 
earth  be  an  untruth  ?  and  think  you  that  you  are  un- 
known?" 

Ulysses  looked  again;  and  he  saw,  not  a  shepherd, 
but  a  beautiful  woman,  whom  he  immediately  knew  to 
be  the  goddess  Minerva,  that  in  the  wars  of  Troy  had 
frequently  vouchsafed  her  sight  to  him ;  and  had  been 
with  him  since  in  perils,  saving  him  unseen. 

"Let  not  my  ignorance  offend  thee,  great  Minerva," 
he  cried,  "  or  move  thy  displeasure,  that  in  that  shape  I 
knew  thee  not ;  since  the  skill  of  discerning  the  deities  is 
not  attainable  by  wit  or  study,  but  hard  to  be  hit  by  the 
wisest  of  mortals.  To  know  thee  truly  through  all  thy 
changes  is  only  given  to  those  whom  thou  art  pleased  to 
grace.  To  all  men  thou  takest  all  likenesses.  All  men 
in  their  wits  think  that  they  know  thee,  and  that  they 
have  thee.  Thou  art  wisdom  itself.  But  a  semblance  of 
thee,  which  is  false  wisdom,  often  is  taken  for  thee :  so 
thy  counterfeit  view  appears  to  many,  but  thy  true  presence 
to  few :  those  are  they  which,  loving  thee  above  all,  are 
inspired  with  light  from  thee  to  know  thee.  But  this  I 
surely  know,  that  all  the  time  the  sons  of  Greece  waged 
war  against  Troy,  I  was  sundry  times  graced  with  thy 
appearance ;  but  since,  I  have  never  been  able  to  set  eyes 
upon  thee  till  now ;  but  have  wandered  at  my  own  dis- 
cretion, to  myself  a  blind  guide,  erring  up  and  down  the 
world,  wanting  thee." 

Then  Minerva  cleared  his  eyes,  and  he  knew  the 
ground  on  which  he  stood  to  be  Ithaca,  and  that  cave  to 
be  the  same  which  the  people  of  Ithaca  had  in  former 
times  made  sacred  to  the  sea-nymphs,  and  where  he  him- 
self had  done  sacrifices  to  them  a  thousand  times  ;  and 
full  in  his  view  stood  Mount  Nerytus  with  all  its  woods : 
so  that  now  he  knew  for  a  certainty  that  he  was  arrived 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  149 

in  his  own  country,  and  with  the  delight  which  he  felt  he 
could  not  forbear  stooping  down  and  kissing  the  soil. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  change  from  a  king  to  a  beggar — Eumaens  and  the 
herdsmen — Telemachos. 

NOT  long  did  Minerva  suffer  him  to  indulge  vain  trans- 
ports, but  briefly  recounting  to  him  the  events  which  had 
taken  place  in  Ithaca  during  his  absence,  she  showed  him 
that  his  way  to  his  wife  and  throne  did  not  lie  so  open, 
but  that  before  he  was  reinstated  in  the  secure  possession, 
of  them,  he  must  encounter  many  difficulties.  His  palace, 
wanting  its  king,  was  become  a  resort  of  insolent  and 
imperious  men,  the  chief  nobility  of  Ithaca  and  of  the 
neighbouring  isles,  who,  in  the  confidence  of  Ulysses 
being  dead,  came  as  suitors  to  Penelope.  The  queen  (it 
was  true)  continued  single,  but  was  little  better  than  a 
state-prisoner  in  the  power  of  these  men,  who  under  a 
pretence  of  waiting  her  decision,  occupied  the  king's  house, 
rather  as  owners  than  guests,  lording  and  domineering  at 
their  pleasure,  profaning  the  palace,  actt  wasting  the  royal 
substance,  with  their  feasts  and  mad  riots.  Moreover  the 
goddess  told  him  how,  fearing  the  attempts  of  these  law- 
less men  upon  the  person  of  his  young  son  Telemachus, 
she  herself  had  put  it  into  the  heart  of  the  prince  to  go 
and  seek  his  father  in  far  countries ;  how  in  the  shape  of 
Mentor  she  had  borne  him  company  in  his  long  search  : 
which,  though  failing,  as  she  meant  it  should  fail,  in  its 
first  object,  had  yet  had  this  effect,  that  through  hard- 
ships he  had  learned  endurance,  through  experience  he 
had  gathered  wisdom,  and  wherever  his  footsteps  had 
been  he  had  left  such  memorials  of  his  worth,  as  the 
fame  of  Ulysses'  son  was  already  blown  throughout  the 
world.  That  it  was  now  not  many  days  since  Telemachus 
had  arrived  in  the  island,  to  the  great  joy  of  the  queen 


150  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

his  mother,  who  had  thought  him  dead,  by  reason  of  his 
long  absence,  and  had  begun  to  mourn  for  him  with  a 
grief  equal  to  that  which  she  endured  for  Ulysses ;  the 
goddess  herself  having  so  ordered  the  course  of  his  adven- 
tures, that  the  time  of  his  return  should  correspond  with 
the  return  of  Ulysses,  that  they  might  together  concert 
measures  how  to  repress  the  power  and  insolence  of  those 
wicked  suitors.  This  the  goddess  told  him ;  but  of  the 
particulars  of  his  son's  adventures,  of  his  having  been 
detained  in  the  Delightful  Island,  which  his  father  had 
so  lately  left,  of  Calypso,  and  her  nymphs,  and  the  many 
strange  occurrences  which  may  be  read  with  profit  and 
delight  in  the  history  of  the  prince's  adventures,  she 
forbore  to  tell  him  as  yet,  as  judging  that  he  would  hear 
them  with  greater  pleasure  from  the  lips  of  his  son,  when 
he  should  have  him  in  an  hour  of  stillness  and  safety, 
when  their  work  should  be  done,  and  none  of  their 
enemies  left  alive  to  trouble  them. 

Then  they  sat  down,  the  goddess  and  Ulysses,  at  the 
foot  of  a  wild  olive-tree,  consulting  how  they  might  with 
safety  bring  about  his  restoration.  And  when  Ulysses 
revolved  in  his  mind  how  that  his  enemies  were  a  multi- 
tude, and  he  single,  he  began  to  despond,  and  he  said,  "  I 
shall  die  an  ill  death  like  Agamemnon ;  in  the  threshold 
of  my  own  house  I  shall  perish,  like  that  unfortunate 
monarch,  slain  by  some  one  of  my  wife's  suitors."  But 
then  again  calling  to  mind  his  ancient  courage,  he  secretly 
wished  that  Minerva  would  but  breathe  such  a  spirit 
into  his  bosom  as  she  enflamed  him  with  in  the  day  of 
Troy's  destruction,  that  he  might  encounter  with  three 
hundred  of  those  impudent  suitors  at  once,  and  strew  the 
pavements  of  his  beautiful  palace  with  their  bloods  and 
brains. 

And  Minerva  knew  his  thoughts,  and  she  said,  "  I 
will  be  strongly  with  thee,  if  thou  fail  not  to  do  thy  part. 
And  for  a  sign  between  us  that  I  will  perform  my  promise, 
and  for  a  token  on  thy  part  of  obedience,  I  must  change 
thoa,  that  thy  person  may  not  be  known  of  men." 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  151 

Then  Ulysses  bowed  his  head  to  receive  the  divine 
impression,  and  Minerva  by  her  great  power  changed  his 
person  so  that  it  might  not  be  known.  She  changed  him 
to  appearance  into  a  very  old  man,  yet  such  a  one  as  by 
his  limbs  and  gait  seemed  to  have  been  some  considerable 
person  in  his  time,  and  to  retain  yet  some  remains  of  his 
once  prodigious  strength.  Also,  instead  of  those  rich 
robes  in  which  king  Alcinous  had  clothed  him,  she  threw 
over  his  limbs  such  old  and  tattered  rags  as  wandering 
beggars  usually  wear.  A  staff  supported  his  steps,  and  a 
scrip  hung  to  his  back,  such  as  travelling  mendicants  use, 
to  hold  the  scraps  which  are  given  to  them  at  rich  men's 
doors.  So  from  a  king  he  became  a  beggar,  as  wise 
Tiresias  had  predicted  to  him  in  the  shades. 

To  complete  his  humiliation,  and  to  prove  his  obedience 
by  suffering,  she  next  directed  him  in  this  beggarly  attire 
to  go  and  present  himself  to  bis  old  herdsman  Eumaeus, 
who  had  the  care  of  his  swine  and  his  cattle,  and  had 
been  a  faithful  steward  to  him  all  the  time  of  his  absence. 
Then  strictly  charging  Ulysses  that  he  should  reveal 
himself  to  no  man  but  to  his  own  son,  whom  she  would 
send  to  him  when  she  saw  occasion,  the  goddess  went  her 
way. 

The  transformed  Ulysses  bent  his  course  to  the  cottage 
of  the  herdsman,  and  entering  in  at  the  front  court,  the 
dogs,  of  which  Eumseus  kept  many  fierce  ones  for  the 
protection  of  the  cattle,  flew  with  open  mouths  upon  him, 
as  those  ignoble  animals  have  oftentimes  an  antipathy  to 
the  sight  of  anything  like  a  beggar,  and  would  have  rent 
him  in  pieces  with  their  teeth,  if  Ulysses  had  not  had  the 
prudence  to  let  fall  his  staff,  which  had  chiefly  provoked 
their  fury,  and  sat  himself  down  in  a  careless  fashion 
upon  the  ground ;  but  for  all  that  some  serious  hurt  had 
certainly  been  done  to  him,  so  raging  the  dogs  were,  had 
not  the  herdsman,  whom  the  barking  of  the  clogs  had 
fetched  out  of  the  house,  with  shouting  and  with  throwing 
of  stones  repressed  them. 

He  said,  when  he  saw  Ulysses,  "  Old  father,  how  near 


152       THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

you  were  to  being  torn  in  pieces  by  these  rude  dogs  !  I 
should  never  have  forgiven  myself,  if  through  neglect  of 
mine  any  hurt  had  happened  to  you.  But  heaven  has 
given  me  so  many  cares  to  my  portion,  that  I  might  well 
be  excused  for  not  attending  to  everything :  while  here  I 
lie  grieving  and  mourning  for  the  absence  of  that  majesty 
which  once  ruled  here,  and  am  forced  to  fatten  his  swine 
and  his  cattle  for  evil  men,  who  hate  him,  and  who  wish 
his  death ;  when  he  perhaps  strays  up  and  down  the  world, 
and  has  not  wherewith  to  appease  hunger,  if  indeed  he 
yet  lives  (which  is  a  question)  and  enjoys  the  cheerful 
light  of  the  sun."  This  he  said,  little  thinking  that  he 
of  whom  he  spoke  now  stood  before  him,  and  that  in 
that  uncouth  disguise  and  beggarly  obscurity  was  present 
the  hidden  majesty  of  Ulysses. 

Then  he  had  his  guest  into  the  house,  and  set  meat 
and  drink  before  him  ;  and  Ulysses  said,  "  May  Jove  and 
all  the  other  gods  requite  you  for  the  kind  speeches  and 
hospitable  usage  which  you  have  shown  me  ! " 

Earnse us  made  answer,  "My  poor  guest,  if  one  in 
much  worse  plight  than  yourself  had  arrived  ,here,  it  were 
a  shame  to  such  scanty  means  as  I  have,  if  I  had  let  him 
depart  without  entertaining  him  to  the  best  of  my  ability. 
Poor  men,  and  such  as  have  no  houses  of  their  own,  are 
by  Jove  himself  recommended  to  our  care.  But  the 
cheer  which  we  that  are  servants  to  other  men  have  to 
bestow,  is  but  sorry  at  most,  yet  freely  and  lovingly  I 
give  it  you.  Indeed  there  once  ruled  here  a  man,  whose 
return  the  gods  have  set  their  faces  against,  who,  if  he 
had  been  suffered  to  reign  in  peace  and  grow  old  among 
us,  would  have  been  kind  to  me  and  mine.  But  he  is 
gone;  and  for  his  sake  would  to  God  that  the  whole 
posterity  of  Helen  might  perish  with  her,  since  in  her 
quarrel  so  many  worthies  have  perished.  But  such  as 
your  fare  is,  eat  it,  and  be  welcome ;  such  lean  beasts  as 
are  food  for  poor  herdsmen.  The  fattest  go  to  feed  the 
voracious  stomachs  of  the  queen's  suitors.  Shame  on 
their  unworthiness,  there  is  no  day  in  which  two  or  three 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  153 

of  the  noblest  of  the  herd  are  not  skin  to  support  their 
feasts  and  their  surfeits." 

Ulysses  gave  good  ear  to  his  words,  and  as  he  ate  his 
meat,  he  even  tore  it  and  rent  it  with  his  teeth,  for  mere 
vexatioH  that  his  fat  cattle  should  be  slain  to  glut  the 
appetites  of  those  godless  suitors.  And  he  said,  "  What 
chief  or  what  ruler  is  this,  that  thou  commendest  so 
highly,  and  sayest  that  he  perished  at  Troy?  I  am  but 
a  stranger  in  these  parts.  It  may  be  I  have  heard  of 
some  such  in  my  long  travels." 

EumaBus  answered,  "  Old  father,  never  one  of  all  the 
strangers  that  have  come  to  our  coast  with  news  of 
Ulysses  being  alive,  could  gain  credit  with  the  queen  or 
her  son  yet.  These  travellers,  to  get  raiment  or  a  meal, 
will  not  stick  to  invent  any  lie.  Truth  is  not  the  com- 
modity they  deal  in.  Never  did  the  queen  get  anything 
of  them  but  lies.  She  receives  all  that  come  graciously, 
hears  their  stories,  inquires  all  she  can,  but  all  ends  in 
tears  and  dissatisfaction.  But  in  God's  name,  old  father, 
if  you  have  got  a  tale,  make  the  most  on't,  it  may  gain 
you  a  cloak  or  a  coat  from  somebody  to  keep  you  warm  : 
but  for  him  who  is  the  subject  of  it,  dogs  and  vultures 
long  since  have  torn  him  limb  from  limb,  or  some  great 
fish  at  sea  has  devoured  him,  or  he  lieth  with  no  better 
monument  upon  his  bones  than  the  sea-sand.  But  for 
me,  past  all  the  race  of  men,  were  tears  created :  for  I 
never  shall  find  so  kind  a  royal  master  more ;  not  if  my 
father  or  my  mother  could  come  again  and  visit  me  from 
the  tomb,  would  my  eyes  be  so  blessed,  as  they  should 
be  with  the  sight  of  him  again,  coming  as  from  the  dead. 
In  his  last  rest  my  soul  shall  love  him.  He  is  not  here, 
nor  do  I  name  him  as  a  flatterer,  but  because  I  am 
thankful  for  his  love  and  care  which  he  had  to  me  a  poor 
man ;  and  if  I  knew  surely  that  he  were  past  all  shores 
that  the  sun  shines  upon,  I  would  invoke  him  as  a  deified 
thing." 

For  this  saying  of  Eumaeus  the  waters  stood  in  Ulysses' 
eyes,  and  he  said,  "  My  friend,  to  say  and  to  affirm  posi- 


154  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

tively  that  he  cannot  be  alive,  is  to  give  too  much  license 
to  incredulity.  For,  not  to  speak  at  random,  but  with 
as  much  solemnity  as  an  oath  comes  to,  I  say  to  you  that 
Ulysses  shall  return,  and  whenever  that  clay  shall  be, 
then  shall  you  give  to  me  a  cloak  and  a  coat ;  but  till  then, 
I  will  not  receive  so  much  as  a  thread  of  a  garment,  but 
rather  go  naked ;  for  no  less  than  the  gates  of  hell  do  I 
hate  that  man,  whom  poverty  can  force  to  tell  an  untruth. 
Be  Jove  then  witness  to  my  words,  that  this  very  year, 
nay  ere  this  month  be  fully  ended,  your  eyes  shall  behold 
Ulysses,  dealing  vengeance  in  his  own  palace  upon  the 
wrongers  of  his  wife  and  his  son." 

To  give  the  better  credence  to  his  words,  he  amused 
Eumseus  with  a  forged  story  of  his  life,  feigning  of  him- 
self that  he  was  a  Cretan  born,  and  one  that  went  with 
Idomeneus  to  the  wars  of  Troy.  Also  he  said  that  he 
knew  Ulysses,  and  related  various  passages  which  he 
alleged  to  have  happened  betwixt  Ulysses  and  himself, 
which  were  either  true  in  the  main,  as  having  really 
happened  between  Ulysses  and  some  other  person,  or 
were  so  like  to  truth,  as  corresponding  with  the  known 
character  and  actions  of  Ulysses  that  Eumseus'  incredulity 
was  not  a  little  shaken.  Among  other  things  he  asserted 
that  he  had  lately  been  entertained  in  the  court  of  Thes- 
protia,  where  the  king's  son  of  the  country  had  told  him, 
that  Ulysses  had  been  there  but  just  before  him,  and 
was  gone  upon  a  voyage  to  the  oracle  of  Jove  in  Dodona, 
whence  he  should  shortly  return,  and  a  ship  would  be 
ready  by  the  bounty  of  the  Thesprotians  to  convoy  him 
straight  to  Ithaca.  "  And  in  token  that  what  I  tell  you 
is  true,"  said  Ulysses,  "  if  your  king  come  not  within  the 
period  which  I  have  named,  you  shall  have  leave  to  give 
your  servants  commandment  to  take  my  old  carcass,  and 
throw  it  headlong  from  some  steep  rock  into  the  sea,  that 
poor  men,  taking  example  by  me,  may  fear  to  lie."  But 
Eumseus  made  answer  that  that  should  be  small  satisfac- 
tion or  pleasure  to  him. 

So  while  they  sat  discoursing  in  this  manner,  supper 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  155 

was  served  in,  and  the  servants  of  the  herdsman,  who 
had  been  out  all  day  in  the  fields,  came  in  to  supper,  and 
took  their  seats  at  the  fire,  for  the  night  was  bitter  and 
frosty.  After  supper,  Ulysses,  who  had  well  eaten  and 
drunken,  and  was  refreshed  with  the  herdsman's  good 
cheer,  was  resolved  to  try  whether  his  host's  hospitality 
would  extend  to  the  lending  him  a  good  warm  mantle  or 
rug  to  cover  him  in  the  night-season  ;  and  framing  an 
artful  tale  for  the  purpose,  in  a  merry  mood,  filling  a  cup 
of  Greek  wine,  he  thus  began  : 

"  I  will  you  a  story  of  your  king  Ulysses  and  myself. 
If  there  is  ever  a  time  when  a  man  may  have  leave  to 
tell  his  own  stories,  it  is  when  he  has  drunken  a  little 
too  much.  Strong  liquor  driveth  the  fool,  and  moves 
even  the  heart  of  the  wise,  moves  and  impels  him  to  sing 
and  to  dance,  and  break  forth  in  pleasant  laughters,  and 
perchance  to  prefer  a  speech  too  which  were  better  kept 
in.  When  the  heart  is  open,  the  tongue  will  be  stirring. 
But  you  shall  hear.  We  led  our  powers  to  ambush  once 
under  the  walls  of  Troy." 

The  herdsmen  crowded  about  him  eager  to  hear  any- 
thing which  related  to  their  king  Ulysses  and  the  wars 
of  Troy,  and  thus  he  went  on  : 

"  I  remember  Ulysses  and  Menelaus  had  the  direction 
of  that  enterprise,  and  they  were  pleased  to  join  me  with 
them  in  the  command.  I  was  at  that  time  in  some 
repute  among  men,  though  fortune  has  played  me  a  trick 
since,  as  you  may  perceive.  But  I  was  somebody  in  those 
times,  and  could  do  something.  Be  that  as  it  may,  a 
bitter  freezing  night  it  was,  such  a  night  as  this,  the  air 
cut  like  steel,  and  the  sleet  gathered  on  our  shields  like 
crystal.  There  was  some  twenty  of  us  that  lay  close 
crouched  down  among  the  reeds  and  bulrushes  that  grew 
in  the  moat  that  goes  round  the  city.  The  rest  of  us  made 
tolerable  shift,  for  every  man  had  been  careful  to  bring 
with  him  a  good  cloak  or  mantle  to  wrap  over  his  armour 
and  keep  himself  warm ;  but  I,  as  it  chanced,  had  left 
my  cloak  behind  me,  as  not  expecting  that  the  night 


156       THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

would  prove  so  cool,  or  rather  I  believe  because  I  had  at 
that  time  a  brave  siut  of  new  armour  on,  which  being  a 
soldier,  and  having  some  of  tlie  soldier's  vice  about  me, 
vanity,  I  was  not  willing  should  be  hidden  under  a  cloak ; 
but  I  paid  for  my  indiscretion  with  my  suffering*,  for  the 
inclement  night,  and  the  wet  of  the  ditch  in  which  we 
lay,  I  was  well-nigh  frozen  to  death ;  and  when  I  could 
endure  no  longer,  I  jogged  Ulysses,  who  was  next  to  me, 
and  had  a  nimble  ear,  and  make  known  my  case  to  him, 
assuring  him  that  I  must  inevitably  perish.  He  answered 
in  a  low  whisper,  '  Hush,  lest  any  Greek  should  hear  you, 
and  take  notice  of  your  softness.'  Not  a  word  more  he 
said,  but  showed  as  if  he  had  no  pity  for  the  plight  I  was 
in.  But  he  was  as  considerate  as  he  was  brave,  and  even 
then,  as  he  lay  with  his  head  reposing  upon  his  hand,  he 
was  meditating  ho\v  to  relieve  me,  without  exposing  my 
weakness  to  the  soldiers.  At  last  raising  up  his  head, 
he  made  as  if  he  had  been  asleep,  and  said,  '  Friends,  I 
have  been  warned  in  a  dream  to  send  to  the  fleet  to  king 
Agamemnon  for  a  supply,  to  recruit  our  numbers,  for  we 
are  not  sufficient  for  this  enterprise ; '  and  they  believing 
him,  one  Thoas  was  despatched  on  that  errand,  who 
departing,  for  more  speed,  as  Ulysses  had  foreseen,  left 
his  upper  garment  behind  him,  a  good  warm  mantle,  to 
which  I  succeeded,  and  by  the  help  of  it  got  through  the 
night  with  credit.  This "  shift  Ulysses  made  for  »ne  in 
need,  and  would  to  heaven  that  I  had  now  that  strength 
in  my  limbs,  which  made  me  in  those  days  to  be  accounted 
fit  to  be  a  leader  under  Ulysses !  I  should  not  then 
want  the  loan  of  a  cloak  or  mantle,  to  wrap  about,  me 
and  shield  my  old  limbs  from  the  night-air." 

The  tale  pleased  the  herdsmen ;  and  Eumseus,  who 
more  than  all  the  rest  was  gratified  to  hear  tales  of 
Ulysses,  true  or  false,  said,  that  for  his  story  he  deserved 
a  mantle  and  a  night's  lodging,  which  he  should  have ; 
and  he  spread  for  him  a  bed  of  goat  and  sheep  skins  by 
the  fire ;  and  the  seeming  beggar,  who  was  indeed  the 
true  Ulysses,  lay  down  and  slept  under  that  poor  roof, 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  157 

in  that  abject  disguise  to  which  the  will  of  Minerva  had 
subjected  him. 

When  morning  was  come,  Ulysses  made  offer  to 
depart,  as  if  he  were  not  willing  to  burthen  his  host's 
hospitality  any  longer,  but  said  that  he  would  go  and 
try  the  humanity  of  the  town's  folk,  if  any  there  would 
bestow  upon  him  a  bit  of  bread  or  a  cup  of  drink. 
Perhaps  the  queen's  suitors  (he  -said)  out  of  their  full 
feasts  would  bestow  a  scrap  on  him  :  for  he  could  wait 
at  table,  if  need  were,  and  play  the  nimble  serving-man, 
he  could  fetch  wood  (he  said)  or  build  a  fire,  prepare 
roast  meat  or  boiled,  mix  the  wine  with  water,  or  do  any 
of  those  offices  which  recommended  poor  men  like  him  to 
services  in  great  men's  houses. 

"  Alas !  poor  guest,"  said  Eumseus,  "  you  know  not 
what  you  speak.  What  should  so  poor  and  old  a  man 
as  you  do  at  the  suitors'  tables  1  Their  light  minds  are 
not  given  to  such  grave  servitors.  They  must  have 
youths,  richly  tricked  out  in  flowing  vests,  with  curled 
hair,  like  so  many  of  Jove's  cup-bearers,  to  fill  out  the 
wine  to  them  as  they  sit  at  table,  and  to  shift  their 
trenchers.  Their  gorged  insolence  would  but  despise  and 
make  a  mock  at  thy  age.  Stay  here.  Perhaps  the 
queen,  or  Telemachus,  hearing  of  thy  arrival,  may  send 
to  thee  of  their  bounty." 

As  he  spake  these  words,  the  steps  of  one  crossing 
the  front  court  were  heard,  and  a  noise  of  the  dogs  fawn- 
ing and  leaping  about  as  for  joy ;  by  which  token  Eumaeus 
guessed  that  it  was  the  prince,  who  hearing  of  a  traveller 
being  arrived  at  Eumseus'  cottage  that  brought  tidings 
of  his  father,  was  come  to  search  the  truth,  and  Euma3us 
said :  "It  is  the  tread  of  Telemachus,  the  son  of  king 
Ulysses."  Before  he  could  well  speak  the  words,  the 
prince  was  at  the  door,  whom  Ulysses  rising  to  receive, 
Telemachus  would  not  suffer  that  so  aged  a  man,  as  he 
appeared,  should  rise  to  do  respect  to  him,  but  he  cour- 
teously and  reverently  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  inclined 
his  head  to  him,  as  if  he  had  surely  known  that  it  was 


158       THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

his  father  indeed :  but  Ulysses  covered  his  eyes  with  his 
hands,  that  he  might  not  show  the  waters  which  stood 
iu  them.  And  Telemachus  said,  "  Is  this  the  man  who 
can  tell  us  tidings  of  the  king  my  father1?" 

"  He  brags  himself  to  be  a  Cretan  born,"  said  Eumaeus, 
"and  that  he  has  been  a  soldier  and  a  traveller,  but 
whether  he  speak  the  truth  or  not,  he  alone  can  tell. 
But  whatsoever  he  has  been,  what  he  is  now  is  apparent. 
Such  as  he  appears,  I  give  him  to  you ;  do  what  you  will 
with  him ;  his  boast  at  present  is  that  he  is  at  the  very 
best  a  supplicant." 

"Be  he  what  he  may,"  said  Telemachus,  "I  accept 
him  at  your  hands.  But  where  I  should  bestow  him  I 
know  not,  seeing  that  in  the  palace  his  age  would  not 
exempt  him  from  the  scorn  and  contempt  which  my 
mother's  suitors  in  their  light  minds  would  be  sure  to 
fling  upon  him.  A  mercy  if  he  escaped  without  blows  : 
for  they  are  a  company  of  evil  men,  whose  profession  is 
wrongs  and  violence." 

Ulysses  answered :  "  Since  it  is  free  for  any  man  to 
speak  in  presence  of  your  greatness,  I  must  say  that  my 
heart  puts  on  a  wolfish  inclination  to  tear  and  to  devour, 
hearing  your  speech,  that  these  suitors  should  with  such 
injustice  rage,  where  you  should  have  the  rule  solely. 
What  should  the  cause  be  ?  do  you  wilfully  give  way  to 
their  ill  manners  1  or  has  your  government  been  such  as 
has  procured  ill-will  towards  you  from  your  people  ?  or 
do  you  mistrust  your  kinsfolk  and  friends  in  such  sort, 
as  without  trial  to  decline  their  aid?  a  man's  kindred 
are  they  that  he  might  trust  to  when  extremities  ran 
high." 

Telemachus  replied :  "  The  kindred  of  Ulysses  are 
few.  I  have  no  brothers  to  assist  me  in  the  strife.  But 
the  suitors  are  powerful  in  kindred  and  friends.  The 
house  of  old  Arcesius  has  had  this  fate  from  the  heavens, 
that  from  old  it  still  has  been  supplied  with  single  heirs. 
To  Arcesius  Laertes  only  was  born,  from  Laertes  descended 
only  Ulysses,  from  Ulysses  I  alone  have  sprung,  whom 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  159 

he  left  so  young,  that  from  me  never  comfort  arose  to 
him.  But  the  end  of  all  rests  in  the  hands  of  the 
gods." 

Then  Eumseus  departing  to  see  to  some  necessary 
business  of  his  herds,  Minerva  took  a  woman's  shape, 
and  stood  in  the  entry  of  the  door,  and  was  seen  to 
Ulysses,  but  by  his  son  she  was  not  seen,  for  the 
presences  of  the  gods  are  invisible  save  to  those  to  whom 
they  will  to  reveal  themselves.  Nevertheless  the  dogs 
which  were  about  the  door  saw  the  goddess,  and  durst 
not  bark,  but  went  crouching  and  licking  of  the  dust  for 
fear.  And  giving  signs  to  Ulysses  that  the  time  was 
now  come  in  which  he  should  make  himself  known  to 
his  son,  by  her  great  power  she  changed  back  his  shape 
into  the  same  which  it  was  before  she  transformed  him ; 
and  Telemachus,  who  saw  the  change,  but  nothing  of 
the  manner  by  which  it  was  effected,  only  he  saw  the 
appearance  of  a  king  in  the  vigour  of  his  age  where  bxit 
just  now  he  had  seen  a  worn  and  decrepit  beggar,  was 
struck  with  fear,  and  said,  "  Some  god  has  done  this 
house  this  honour,"  and  he  turned  away  his  eyes,  and 
would  have  worshipped.  But  his  father  permitted  not, 
but  said,  "  Look  better  at  me ;  I  am  no  deity,  why  put 
you  upon  me  the  reputation  of  godhead  ?  I  am  no  more 
but  thy  father :  I  am  even  he ;  I  am  that  Ulysses,  by 
reason  of  whose  absence  thy  youth  has  been  exposed  to 
such  wrongs  from  injurious  men."  Then  kissed  he  his 
sou,  nor  could  any  longer  refrain  those  tears  which  he 
had  held  under  such  mighty  restraint  before,  though 
they  would  ever  be  forcing  themselves  out  in  spite  of 
him ;  but  now,  as  if  their  sluices  had  burst,  they  came 
out  like  rivers,  pouring  upon  the  warm  cheeks  of  his  son. 
Nor  yet  by  all  these  violent  arguments  could  Telemachus 
be  persuaded  to  believe  that  it  was  his  father,  but  he 
said,  some  deity  had  taken  that  shape  to  mock  him ;  for 
he  affirmed,  that  it  was  not  in  the  power  of  any  man, 
who  is  sustained  by  mortal  food,  to  change  his  shape  so 
in  a  moment  from  age  to  youth  :  for  "  but  now,"  said  he, 


160  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES, 

"  you  were  all  wrinkles,  and  were  old,  and  now  you  look 
as  the  gods  are  pictured." 

His  father  replied  :  "  Admire,  but  fear  not,  and  know 
me  to  be  at  all  parts  substantially  thy  father,  who  in  the 
inner  powers  of  his  mind,  and  the  unseen  workings  of  a 
father's  love  to  thee,  answers  to  his  outward  shape  and 
pretence  !  There  shall  no  more  Ulysseses  come  here.  I 
am  he  that  after  twenty  years'  absence,  and  suffering  a 
world  of  ill,  have  recovered  at  last  the  sight  of  my  country 
earth.  It  was  the  will  of  Minerva  that  I  should  be 
changed  as  you  saw  me.  She  put  me  thus  together; 
she  puts  together  or  takes  to  pieces  whom  she  pleases. 
It  is  in  the  law  of  her  free  power  to  do  it :  sometimes  to 
show  her  favourites  under  a  cloud,  and  poor,  and  again 
to  restore  to  them  their  ornaments.  The  gods  raise  and 
throw  down  men  with  ease." 

Then  Telemachus  could  hold  out  no  longer,  but  he 
gave  way  now  to  a  full  belief  and  persuasion,  of  that 
which  for  joy  at  first  he  could  not  credit,  that  it  was 
indeed  his  true  and  very  father,  that  stood  before  him  ; 
and  they  embraced,  and  mingled  their  tears. 

Then  said  Ulysses,  "Tell  me  who  these  suitors  are, 
what  are  their  numbers,  and  how  stands  the  queen  thy 
mother  affected  to  them  1" 

"She  bears  them  still  in  expectation,"  said  Telemachus, 
"  which  she  never  means  to  fulfil,  that  she  will  accept 
the  hand  of  some  one  of  them  in  second  nuptials.  For 
she  fears  to  displease  them  by  an  absolute  refusal.  So 
from  day  to  day  she  lingers  them  on  with  hope,  which 
they  are  content  to  bear  the  deferring  of,  while  they  have 
entertainment  at  free  cost  in  our  palace." 

Then  said  Ulysses,  "  Reckon  up  their  numbers  that 
we  may  know  their  strength  and  ours,  if  we  having  none 
but  ourselves  may  hope  to  prevail  against  them." 

"0  father,"  he  replied,  "I  have  ofttimes  heard  of 
your  fame  for  wisdom,  and  of  the  great  strength  of  your 
arm,  but  the  venturous  mind  which  your  speeches  now 
indicate  moves  me  even  to  amazement :  for  in  no  wise 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  161 

can  it  consist  with  Avisdom  or  a  sound  mind,  that  two 
should  try  their  strengths  against  a  host.  Nor  five,  or 
ten,  or  twice  ten  strong  are  these  suitors,  but  many  more 
by  much :  from  Dulichium  came  there  fifty  and  two, 
thej*  and  their  servants ;  twice  twelve  crossed  the  seas 
hither  from  Samos ;  from  Zacynthus  twice  ten ;  of  our 
native  Ithacans,  men  of  chief  note,  are  twelve  who  aspire 
to  the  bed  and  crown  of  Penelope ;  and  all  these  under 
one  strong  roof,  a  fearful  odds  against  two  !  My  father, 
there  is  need  of  caution,  lest  the  cup  which  your  great 
mind  so  thirsts  to  taste  of  vengeance  prove  bitter  to 
yourself  in  the  drinking.  And  therefore  it  were  well 
that  we  would  bethink  us  of  some  one  who  might  assist 
us  in  this  undertaking." 

"  Thinkest  thou,"  said  his  father,  "  if  we  had  Minerva 
and  the  king  of  skies  to  be  our  friends,  would  their 
sufficiencies  make  strong  our  part ;  or  must  we  look  out 
for  some  further  aid  yet  V 

"  They  you  speak  of  are  above  the  clouds,"  said  Tele- 
machus,  "  and  are  sound  aids  indeed  ;  as  powers  that  not 
only  exceed  human,  but  bear  the  chiefest  sway  among 
the  gods  themselves." 

Then  Ulysses  gave  directions  to  his  son  to  go  and 
mingle  with  the  suitors,  and  in  no  wise  to  impart  his 
secret  to  any,  not  even  to  the  queen  his  mother,  but  to 
hold  himself  in  readiness,  and  to  have  his  weapons  and 
his  good  armour  in  preparation.  Arid  he  charged  him, 
that  when  he  himself  should  come  to  the  palace,  as  he 
meant  to  follow  shortly  after  and  present  himself  in  his 
beggar's  likeness  to  the  suitors,  that  whatever  he  should 
see  which  might  grieve  his  heart,  with  what  foul  usage 
and  contumelious  language  soever  the  suitors  should  re- 
ceive his  father,  coming  in  that  shape,  though  they  should 
strike  and  drag  him  by  the  heels  along  the  floors,  that 
he  should  not  stir  nor  make  offer  to  oppose  them,  further 
than  by  mild  words  to  expostulate  with  them,  until 
Minerva  from  heaven  should  give  the  sign  which  should 
be  the  prelude  to  their  destruction.  And  Teleinachua 

M 


162  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

promising  to  obey  his  instructions  departed ;  and  the 
shape  of  Ulysses  fell  to  what  it  had  been  before,  and  he 
became  to  all  outward  appearance  a  beggar,  in  base  and 
beggarly  attire. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

The  queen's  suitors— The  battle  of  the  beggars — The  armour 
taken  down — The  meeting  with  Penelope. 

FKOM  the  house  of  Eumseus  the  seeming  beggar  took  his 
way,  leaning  on  his  staff,  till  he  reached  the  palace, 
entering  in  at  the  hall  where  the  suitors  sat  at  meat. 
They  iu  the  pride  of  their  feasting  began  to  break  their 
jests  in  mirthful  manner,  when  they  saw  one  looking  so 
poor  and  so  aged  approach.  He  who  expected  no  better 
entertainment  was  nothing  moved  at  their  behaviour, 
but,  as  became  the  character  which  he  had  assumed,  in 
a  suppliant  posture  crept  by  turns  to  every  suitor,  and 
held  out  his  hands  for  some  charity,  with  such  a  natural 
and  beggar-resembling  grace,  that  he  might  seem  to  have 
practised  begging  all  his  life ;  yet  there  was  a  sort  of 
dignity  in  his  most  abject  stoopings,  that  whoever  had 
seen  him,  would  have  said,  If  it  had  pleased  heaven  that 
this  poor  man  had  been  born  a  king,  he  would  gracefully 
have  filled  a  throne.  And  some  pitied  him,  and  some 
gave  him  alms,  as  their  present  humours  inclined  them, 
but  the  greater  part  reviled  him,  and  bid  him  begone,  aa 
one  that  spoiled  their  feast ;  for  the  presence  of  misery 
has  this  power  with  it,  that  while  it  stays,  it  can  dash 
and  overturn  the  mirth  even  of  those  who  feel  no  pity 
or  wish  to  relieve  it ;  nature  bearing  this  witness  of  her- 
self in  the  hearts  of  the  most  obdurate. 

Now  Telemachus  sat  at  meat  with  the  suitors,  and 
knew  that  it  was  the  king  his  father,  who  in  that  shape 
begged  an  alms ;  and  when  his  father  came  and  pre- 
sented himself  before  him  in  turn,  as  he  had  done  to  the 
suitors  one  by  one,  he  gave  him  of  his  own  meat  which 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.       163 

he  had  in  his  dish,  and  of  his  own  cup  to  drink.  And 
the  suitors  were  past  measure  offended  to  see  a  pitiful 
beggar,  as  they  esteemed  him,  to  be  so  choicely  regarded 
by  the  prince. 

Then  Antinous,  who  was  a  great  lord,  and  of  chief 
note  among  the  suitors,  said,  "  Prince  Telemachus  does 
ill  to  encourage  these  wandering  beggars,  who  go  from 
place  to  place,  affirming  that  they  have  been  some  con- 
siderable persons  in  their  time,  filling  the  ears  of  such  as 
hearken  to  them  with  lies,  and  pressing  with  their  bold 
feet  into  kings'  palaces.  This  is  some  saucy  vagabond, 
some  travelling  Egyptian." 

"  I  see,"  said  Ulysses,  "  that  a  poor  man  should  get 
but  little  at  your  board,  scarce  should  he  get  salt  from 
your  hands  if  he  brought  his  own  meat." 

Lord  Antiuous,  indignant  to  be  answered  with  such 
sharpness  by  a  supposed  beggar,  snatched  up  a  stool, 
with  which  he  smote  Ulysses  where  the  neck  and  shoulders 
join.  This  usage  moved  not  Ulysses ;  but  in  his  great 
heart  he  meditated  deep  evils  to  come  upon  them  all, 
which  for  a  time  must  be  kept  close,  and  he  went  and 
sat  himself  down  in  the  doorway  to  eat  of  that  which 
was  given  him,  and  he  said,  "For  life  or  possessions  a 
man  will  fight,  but  for  his  belly  this  man  smites.  If  a 
poor  man  has  any  god  to  take  his  part,  my  lord  Antinous 
shall  not  live  to  be  the  queen's  husband." 

Then  Antinous  raged  highly,  and  threatened  to  drag 
him  by  the  heels,  and  to  rend  his  rags  about  his  ears,  if 
he  spoke  another  word. 

But  the  other  suitors  did  in  no  wise  approve  of  the 
harsh  language,  nor  of  the  blow  which  Autinous  had 
dealt ;  and  some  of  them  said,  "  Who  knows  but  one  of 
the  deities  goes  about,  hid  under  that  poor  disguise  ?  for 
in  the  likeness  of  poor  pilgrims  the  gods  have  many  times 
descended  to  try  the  dispositions  of  men,  whether  they 
be  humane  or  impious."  While  these  things  passed, 
Telemachus  sat  and  observed  all,  but  held  his  peace, 
remembering  the  instructions  of  his  father.  But  secretly 


1G4  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

he  waited  for  the  sign  which  Minerva  was  to  send  from 
heaven. 

That  day  there  followed  Ulysses  to  the  court  one  of 
the  common  sort  of  beggars,  Iriis  by  name,  one  that  had 
received  alms  bcforetime  of  the  suitors,  and  was  their 
ordinary  sport,  when  they  were  inclined  (as  that  day)  to 
give  way  to  mirth,  to  see  him  eat  and  drink ;  for  he  had 
the  appetite  of  six  men ;  and  was  of  huge  stature  and 
proportions  of  body ;  yet  had  in  him  no  spirit  nor  courage 
of  a  man.  This  man,  thinking  to  curry  favour  with  the 
.suitors,  and  recommend  himself  especially  to  such  a  great 
lord  as  Autinous  was,  began  to  revile  and  scorn  Ulysses, 
putting  foul  language  upon  him,  and  fairly  challenging 
him  to  fight  with  the  fist.  But  Ulysses,  deeming  his 
railings  to  be  nothing  more  than  jealousy  and  that  envious 
disposition  which  beggars  commonly  manifest  to  brothers 
in  their  trade,  mildly  besought  him  not  to  trouble  him, 
but  to  enjoy  that  portion  which  the  liberality  of  their 
entertainers  gave  him,  as  he  did,'  quietly ;  seeing  that  of 
their  bounty  there  was  sufficient  for  all. 

But  Iras,  thinking  that  this  forbearance  in  Ulysses 
was  nothing  more  than  a  sign  of  fear,  so  much  the  more 
highly  stormed,  and  bellowed,  and  provoked  him  to  fight ; 
and  by  this  time  the  quarrel  had  attracted  the  notice  of 
the  suitors,  who  with  loud  laxighters  and  shouting  egged 
on  the  dispute,  and  lord  Antinous  swore  by  all  the  gods 
it  should  be  a  battle,  and  that  in  that  hall  the  strife 
should  be  determined.  To  this  the  rest  of  the  suitors 
with  violent  clamours  acceded,  and  a  circle  was  made  for 
the  combatants,  and  a  fat  goat  was  proposed  as  the 
victor's  prize,  as  at  the  Olympic  or  the  Pythian  games. 
Then  Ulysses,  seeing  no  remedy,  or  being  not  unwilling 
that  the  suitors  should  behold  some  proof  of  that  strength 
which  ere  long  in  their  own  persons  they  were  to  taste  of, 
stripped  himself,  and  prepared  for  the  combat.  But  first 
he  demanded  that  he  should  have  fair  play  shown  him, 
that  none  in  that  assembly  should  aid  his  opponent,  or 
take  part  against  him,  for,  being  an  old  man,  they  might 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  165 

easily  crash  him  with  their  strengths.  And  Telemachus 
passed  his  word  that  no  foul  play  should  be  shown  him, 
but  that  each  party  should  be  left  to  their  own  unassisted 
strengths,  and  to  this  he  made  Antinous  and  the  rest  of 
the  suitors  swear. 

But  when  Ulysses  had  laid  aside  his  garments,  and 
was  bare  to  the  waist,  all  the  beholders  admired  at  the 
goodly  sight  of  his  large  shoulders  being  of  such  exquisite 
shape  and  whiteness,  and  at  his  great  and  brawny  bosom, 
and  the  youthful  strength  which  seemed  to  remain  in  a 
man  thought  so  old ;  and  they  said,  "  What  limbs  and 
what  sinews  he  has !"  and  coward  fear  seized  on  the 
mind  of  that  great  vast  beggar,  and  he  dropped  his 
threats  and  big  words,  and  would  have  fled,  but  lord 
Antinous  stayed  him,  and  threatened  him  that  if  he 
declined  the  combat,  he  would  put  him  a  ship,  and  land 
him  on  the  shores  where  king  Echetus  reigned,  the 
roughest  tyrant  which  at  that  time  the  world  contained, 
and  who  had  that  antipathy  to  rascal  beggars,  such  as  he, 
that  when  any  landed  on  his  coast,  he  would  crop  their 
ears  and  noses  and  give  them  to  the  dogs  to  tear.  So 
Irus,  in  whom  fear  of  king  Echetus  prevailed  above  the 
fear  of  Ulysses,  addressed  himself  to  fight.  But  Ulysses, 
provoked  to  be  engaged  in  so  odious  a  strife  with  a  fellow 
of  his  base  conditions,  and  loathing  longer  to  be  made  a 
spectacle  to  entertain  the  eyes  of  his  foes,  with  one  blow 
which  he  struck  him  beneath  the  ear,  so  shattered  the 
teeth  and  jawbone  of  this  soon  baffled  coward,  that  he 
laid  him  sprawling  in  the  dust,  with  small  stomach  or 
ability  to  renew  the  contest.  Then  raising  him  on  his 
feet,  he  led  him  bleeding  and  sputtering  to  the  door,  and 
put  his  staff  into  his  hand,  and  bid  him  go  use  his  com- 
mand upon  dogs  and  swine,  but  not  presume  himself  to 
be  lord  of  the  guests  another  time,  nor  of  the  beggary  ! 

The  suitors  applauded  in  their  vain  minds  the  issue  of 
the  contest,  and  rioted  in  mirth  at  the  expense  of  poor 
Irus,  who  they  vowed  should  be  forthwith  embarked  and 
sent  to  king  Echetus ;  and  they  bestowed  thanks  on. 


166  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

Ulysses  for  ridding  the  court  of  that  unsavoury  morsel, 
as  they  called  him  ;  but  in  their  inward  souls  they  would 
not  have  cared  if  Irus  had  been  victor,  and  Ulysses  had 
taken  the  foil,  but  it  was  mirth  to  them  to  see  the 
beggars  fight.  In  such  pastimes  and  light  entertainments 
the  day  wore  away. 

When  evening  was  come  the  suitors  betook  themselves 
to  music  and  dancing.  And  Ulysses  leaned  his  back 
against  a  pillar  from  which  certain  lamps  hung  which 
gave  light  to  the  dancers,  and  he  made  show  of  watching 
the  dancers,  but  very  different  thoughts  were  in  his  head. 
And  as  he  stood  near  the  lamps,  the  light  fell  upon  his 
head,  which  was  thin  of  hair  and  bald,  as  an  old  man's. 
And  Eurymachus,  a  suitor,  taking  occasion  from  some 
words  which  were  spoken  before,  scoffed  and  said,  "  Now 
I  know  for  a  certainty  that  some  god  lurks  under  the  poor 
and  beggarly  appearance  of  this  man,  for  as  he  stands  by 
the  lamps,  his  sleek  head  throws  beams  around  it,  like  as 
it  were  a  glory."  And  another  said,  "  He  passes  his  time 
too  not  much  unlike  the  gods,  lazily  living  exempt  from 
labour,  taking  offerings  of  men."  "I  warrant,"  said 
Eurymachus  again,  "  he  could  not  raise  a  fence  or  dig  a 
ditch  for  his  livelihood,  if  a  man  would  hire  him  to  work 
in  a  garden." 

"I  wish,"  said  Ulysses,  "that  you  who  speak  this 
and  myself  were  to  be  tried  at  any  task-work,  that  I  had 
a  good  crooked  scythe  put  in  my  hand,  that  was  sharp 
and  strong,  and  you  such  another,  where  the  grass  grew 
longest,  to  be  up  by  daybreak,  mowing  the  meadows  till 
the  sun  went  down,  not  tasting  of  food  till  we  had 
finished,  or  that  we  were  set  to  plough  four  acres  in  one 
day  of  good  glebe  land,  to  see  whose  furrows  were  evenest 
and  cleanest,  or  that  we  might  have  one  wrestling -bout 
together,  or  that  in  our  right  hands  a  good  steel-headed 
lance  were  placed,  to  try  whose  blows  fell  heaviest  and 
thickest  upon  the  adversary's  headpiece.  I  would  cause 
you  such  work,  as  you  should  have  small  reason  to 
reproach  me  with  being  slack  at  work.  But  you  would 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  167 

do  well  to  spare  me  this  reproach,  and  to  save  your 
strength,  till  the  owner  of  this  house  shall  return,  till  the 
day  when  Ulysses  shall  return,  when  returning  he  shall 
enter  upon  his  birthright." 

This  was  a  galling  speech  to  those  suitors,  to  whom 
Ulysses'  return  was  indeed  the  thing  which  they  most 
dreaded ;  and  a  sudden  fear  fell  upon  their  souls,  as  if 
they  were  sensible  of  the  real  presence  of  that  man  who 
did  indeed  stand  amongst  them,  but  not  in  that  form 
as  they  might  know  him;  and  Eurymachus,  incensed, 
snatched  a  massy  cup  which  stood  on  a  table  near,  and 
hurled  it  at  the  head  of  the  supposed  beggar,  and  but 
narrowly  missed  the  hitting  of  him  ;  and  all  the  suitors 
rose,  as  at  once,  to  thrust  him  out  of  the  hall,  which 
they  said  his  beggarly  presence  and  his  rude  speeches 
had  profaned.  But  Telemachus  cried  to  them  to  forbear, 
and  not  to  presume  to  lay  hands  upon  a  wretched  man  to 
whom  he  had  promised  protection.  He  asked  if  they 
were  mad,  to  mix  such  abhorred  uproar  with  his  feasts. 
He  bade  them  take  their  food  and  their  wine,  to  sit  up 
or  go  to  bed  at  their  free  pleasures,  so  long  as  he  should 
give  licence  to  that  freedom ;  but  why  should  they  abuse 
his  banquet,  or  let  the  words  which  a  poor  beggar  spake 
have  power  to  move  their  spleens  so  fiercely  1 

They  bit  their  lips  and  frowned  for  anger,  to  be  checked 
so  by  a  youth ;  nevertheless  for  that  time  they  had  the 
grace  to  abstain,  either  for  shame,  or  that  Minerva  had 
infused  into  them  a  terror  of  Ulysses'  son. 

So  that  day's  feast  was  concluded  without  bloodshed, 
and  the  suitors,  tired  with  their  sports,  departed  severally 
each  man  to  his  apartment.  Only  Ulysses  and  Telemachus 
remained.  And  now  Telemachus,  by  his  father's  direction, 
went  and  brought  down  into  the  hall  armour  and  lances 
from  the  armoury :  for  Ulysses  said,  "  On  the  morrow  we 
shall  have  need  of  them."  And  moreover  he  said,  "If 
any  one  shall  ask  why  you  have  taken  them  down,  say, 
it  is  to  clean  them  and  scour  them  from  the  rust  which 
they  have  gathered  since  the  owner  of  this  house  went 


163  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

for  Troy."  And  as  Telemachus  stood  by  the  armour, 
the  lights  were  all  gone  out,  and  it  was  pitch-dark,  and 
the  armour  gave  out  glistening  beams  as  of  fire,  and  lie 
said  to  his  father,  "  The  pillars  of  the  house  are  on  fire." 
And  his  father  said,  "It  is  the  gods  who  sit  above  the 
stars  and  have  power  to  make  the  night  as  light  as  the 
day."  And  he  took  it  for  a  good  omen.  And  Telemachus 
fell  to  cleaning  and  sharpening  of  the  lances. 

Now  Ulysses  had  not  seen  his  wife  Penelope  in  all  the 
time  since  his  return;  for  the  queen  did  not  care  to 
mingle  with  the  suitors  at  their  banquets,  but,  as  became 
one  that  had  been  Ulysses'  wife,  kept  much  in  private, 
spinning  and  doing  her  excellent  housewiferies  among 
her  maids  in  the  remote  apartments  of  the  palace.  Only 
upon  solemn  days  she  would  come  down  and  show  herself 
to  the  suitors.  And  Ulysses  was  filled  with  a  longing 
desire  to  see  his  wife  again,  whom  for  twenty  years  he 
had  not  beheld,  and  he  softly  stole  through  the  known 
passages  of  his  beautiful  house,  till  he  came  where  the 
maids  were  lighting  the  queen  through  a  stately  gallery 
that  led  to  the  chamber  where  she  slept.  And  when  the 
maids  saw  Ulysses,  they  said,  "  It  is  the  beggar  who 
came  to  the  court  to-day,  about  whom  all  that  uproar  was 
stirred  up  in  the  hall :  what  does  he  here  1"  But  Pene- 
lope gave  commandment  that  he  should  be  brought  before 
her,  for  she  said,  "  It  may  be  that  he  has  travelled,  and 
has  heard  something  concerning  Ulysses." 

Then  was  Ulysses  right  glad  to  hear  himself  named 
by  his  queen,  to  find  himself  in  nowise  forgotten,  nor  her 
great  love  towards  him  decayed  in  all  that  time  that  he 
had  been  away.  And  he  stood  before  his  queen,  and  she 
knew  him  not  to  be  Ulysses,  but  supposed  that  he  had 
been  some  poor  traveller.  And  she  asked  him  of  what 
country  he  was. 

He  told  her  (as  he  had  before  told  to  Eumseus)  that 
he  was  a  Cretan  born,  and  however  poor  and  cast  down 
he  now  seemed,  no  less  a  man  than  brother  to  Idomeneus, 
who  was  grandson  to  king  Minos,  and  though  he  now 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  169 

wanted  bread,  he  had  once  had  it  in  his  power  to  feast 
Ulysses.  Then  he  feigned  how  Ulysses,  sailing  for  Troy, 
was  forced  by  stress  of  weather  to  put  his  fleet  in  at  a 
port  of  Crete,  where  for  twelve  days  he  was  his  guest, 
and  entertained  by  him  with  all  befitting  guest-rites. 
And  he  described  the  very  garments  which  Ulysses  had 
on,  by  which  Penelope  knew  that  he  had  seen  her  lord. 

In  this  manner  Ulysses  told  his  wife  many  tales  of 
himself,  at  most  but  painting,  but  painting  so  near  to  the 
life,  that  the  feeling  of  that  which  she  took  at  her  ears 
became  so  strong,  that  the  kindly  tears  ran  down  her  fair 
cheeks,  while  she  thought  upon  her  lord,  dead  she  thought 
him,  and  heavily  mourned  the  loss  of  him,  whom  she 
missed,  whom  she  could  not  find,  though  in  very  deed  he 
stood  so  near  her. 

Ulysses  was  moved  to  see  her  weep,  but  he  kept  his 
own  eyes  as  dry  as  iron  or  horn  in  their  lids,  putting  a 
bridle  upon  his  strong  passion,  that  it  should  not  issue  to 
sight. 

Then  he  told  her  how  he  had  lately  been  at  the  court 
of  Thesprotia,  and  what  he  had  learned  concerning  Ulysses 
there,  in  order  as  he  had  delivered  to  Eumseus :  and 
Penelope  was  won  to  believe  that  there  might  be  a  possi- 
bility of  Ulysses  being  alive,  and  she  said,  "  I  dreamed  a 
dream  this  morning.  Methought  I  had  twenty  household 
fowl  which  did  eat  wheat  steeped  in  water  from  my  hand, 
and  there  came  suddenly  from  the  clouds  a  crook-beaked 
hawk  who  soused  on  them  and  killed  them  all,  trussing 
their  necks,  then  took  his  flight  back  up  to  the  clouds. 
And  in  my  dream  methought  that  I  wept  and  made  great 
moan  for  my  fowls,  and  for  the  destruction  which  the 
hawk  had  made;  and  my  maids  came  about  me  to 
comfort  me.  And  in  the  height  of  my  griefs  the  hawk 
came  back,  and  lighting  upon  the  beam  of  my  chamber, 
he  said  to  me  in  a  man's  voice,  which  sounded  strangely 
even  in  my  dream,  to  hear  a  hawk  to  speak  :  '  Be  of  good 
cheer/  he  said,  '  0  daughter  of  Icarius ;  for  this  is  no 
dream  which  thou  hast  seen,  bat  that  which  shall  happen 


170  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

to  thee  indeed.  Those  household  fowl  which  thou 
lamentest  so  without  reason,  are  the  suitors  who  devour 
thy  substance,  even  as  thou  sawest  the  fowl  eat  from  thy 
hand,  and  the  hawk  is  thy  husband,  who  is  coming  to 
give  death  to  the  suitors.'  And  I  awoke,  and  went  to 
see  to  my  fowls  if  they  were  alive,  whom  I  found  eating 
wheat  from  their  troughs,  all  well  and  safe  as  before  my 
dream." 

Then  said  Ulysses,  "  This  dream  can  endure  no  other 
interpretation  than  that  which  the  hawk  gave  to  it,  who 
is  your  lord,  and  who  is  coming  quickly  to  effect  all  that 
his  words  told  you." 

"  Your  words,"  she  said,  "  my  old  guest,  are  so  sweet, 
that  would  you  sit  and  please  me  with  your  speech,  my 
ears  would  never  let  my  eyes  close  their  spheres  for  very 
joy  of  your  discourse;  but  none  that  is  merely  mortal 
can  live  without  the  death  of  sleep,  so  the  gods  who  are 
without  death  themselves  have  ordained  it,  to  keep  the 
memory  of  our  mortality  in  our  minds,  while  we  experi- 
ence that  as  much  as  we  live  we  die  every  clay  :  in  which 
consideration  I  will  ascend  my  bed,  which  I  have  nightly 
watered  with  my  tears  since  he  that  was  the  joy  of  it 
departed  for  that  bad  city ;"  she  so  speaking,  because  she 
could  not  bring  her  lips  to  name  the  name  of  Troy  so 
much  hated.  So  for  that  night  they  parted,  Penelope  to 
her  bed,  and  Ulysses  to  his  son,  and  to  the  armour  and 
the  lances  in  the  hall,  where  they  sat  up  all  night  clean- 
ing and  watching  by  the  armour. 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  madness  from  above — The  bow  of  Ulysses — The  slaughter — 
The  conclusion. 

WHEN  daylight  appeared,  a  tumultuous  concourse  of 
suitors  again  filled  the  hall ;  and  some  wondered,  and 
some  inquired  what  meant  that  glittering  store  of  armour 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  171 

and  lances  which  lay  on  heaps  by  the  entry  of  the  door ; 
and  to  all  that  asked  Telemachus  made  reply,  that  he 
had  caused  them  to  be  taken  down  to  cleanse  them  of  the 
rust  and  of  the  staiu  which  they  had  contracted  by  lying 
so  long  unused,  even  ever  since  his  father  went  for  Troy ; 
and  with  that  answer  their  minds  were  easily  satisfied. 
So  to  their  feasting  and  vain  rioting  again  they  fell. 
Ulysses  by  Telemachus'  order  had  a  seat  and  a  mess 
assigned  to  him  in  the  doorway,  and  he  had  his  eye  ever 
on  the  lances.  And  it  moved  gall  in  some  of  the  great 
ones  there  present,  to  have  their  feast  still  dulled  with 
the  society  of  that  wretched  beggar  as  they  deemed  him, 
and  they  reviled  and  spurned  at  him  with  their  feet. 
Only  there  was  one  Philsetius,  who  had  something  a 
better  nature  than  the  rest,  that  spake  kindly  to  him, 
and  had  his  age  in  respect.  He  coming  up  to  Ulysses, 
took  him  by  the  hand  with  a  »kind  of  fear,  as  if  touched 
exceedingly  with  imagination  of  his  great  worth,  and  said 
thus  to  him,  "  Hail !  father  stranger !  my  brows  have 
sweat  to  see  the  injuries  which  you  have  received,  and 
my  eyes  have  broke  forth  in  tears,  when  I  have  only 
thought  that  such  being  oftentimes  the  lot  of  worthiest 
men,  to  this  plight  Ulysses  may  be  reduced,  and  that  he 
now  may  wander  from  place  to  place  as  you  do ;  for  such 
who  are  compelled  by  need  to  range  here  and  there,  and 
have  no  firm  home  to  fix  their  feet  upon,  God  keeps  them 
in  this  earth,  as  under  water ;  so  are  they  kept  down  and 
depressed.  And  a  dark  thread  is  sometimes  spun  in  the 
fates  of  kings." 

At  this  bare  likening  of  the  beggar  to  Ulysses,  Minerva 
from  heaven  made  the  suitors  for  foolish  joy  to  go  mad, 
and  roused  them  to  such  a  laughter  as  would  never  stop, 
they  laughed  without  power  of  ceasing,  their  eyes  stood 
full  of  tears  for  violent  joys;  but  fears  and  horrible 
misgivings  succeeded :  and  one  among  them  stood  up 
and  prophesied :  "Ah,  wretches!"  he  said,  "what  mad- 
ness from  heaven  has  seized  you,  that  you  can  laugh  ?  see 
you  not  that  your  meat  drops  blood  ?  a  night,  like  the 


172       THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

night  of  death,  wraps  you  about,  you  shriek  without 
knowing  it ;  your  eyes  thrust  forth  tears ;  the  fixed  walls, 
and  the  beam  that  bears  the  whole  house  up,  fall  blood ; 
ghosts  choke  up  the  entry ;  full  is  the  hall  with  appari- 
tions of  murdered  men ;  under  your  feet  is  hell ;  the  sun 
falls  from  heaven,  and  it  is  midnight  at  noon."  But  like 
men  whom  the  gods  had  infatuated  to  their  destruction, 
they  mocked  at  his  fears,  and  Eurymachus  said,  "  This 
man  is  surely  mad,  conduct  him  forth  into  the  market- 
place, set  him  in  the  light,  for  he  dreams  that  'tis  night 
within  the  house." 

But  Theoclymenus  (for  that  was  the  prophet's  name), 
whom  Minerva  had  graced  with  a  prophetic  spirit,  that 
he  foreseeing  might  avoid  the  destruction  which  awaited 
them,  answered  and  said :  "  Eurymachus,  I  will  not 
require  a  guide  of  thee,  for  I  have  eyes  and  ears,  the  use  of 
both  my  feet,  and  a  sane  mind  within  me,  and  with  these 
I  will  go  forth  of  the  doors,  because  I  know  the  imminent 
evils  which  await  all  you  that  stay,  by  reason  of  this  poor 
guest  who  is  a  favourite  with  all  the  gods."  So  saying 
he  turned  his  back  upon  those  inhospitable  men,  and 
went  away  home,  and  never  returned  to  the  palace. 

These  words  which  he  spoke  were  not  unheard  by 
Telemachus,  who  kept  still  his  eye  upon  his  father,  ex- 
pecting fervently  when  he  would  give  the  sign,  which 
was  to  precede  the  slaughter  of  the  suitors. 

They  dreaming  of  no  such  thing,  fell  sweetly  to  their 
dinner,  as  joying  in  the  great  store  of  banquet  which  was 
heaped  in  full  tables  about  them  ;  but  there  reigned  not 
a  bitterer  banquet  planet  in  all  heaven,  than  that  which 
hung  over  them  this  day  by  secret  destination  of  Minerva. 

There  was  a  bow  which  Ulysses  left  when  he  went 
for  Troy.  It  had  lain  by  since  that  time,  out  of  use  and 
unstrung,  for  no  man  had  strength  to  draw  that  bow, 
save  Ulysses.  So  it  had  remained  as  a  monument  of 
the  great  strength  of  its  master.  This  bow,  with  the 
quiver  of  arrows  belonging  thereto,  Telemachus  had 
brought  down  from  the  armoury  on  the  last  night  along 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  173 

with  the  lances ;  and  now  Minerva,  intending  to  do 
Ulysses  an  honour,  put  it  into  the  mind  of  Telemachus 
to  propose  to  the  suitors  to  try  who  was  strongest  to  draw 
that  bow ;  and  he  promised  that  to  the  man  who  should 
be  able  to  draw  that  bow,  his  mother  should  be  given  in 
marriage ;  Ulysses'  wife,  the  prize  to  him  who  should 
bend  the  bow  of  Ulysses. 

There  was  great  strife  and  emulation  stirred  up  among 
the  suitors  at  those  words  of  the  prince  Telemachus.  And 
to  grace  her  son's  words,  and  to  confirm  the  promise 
which  he  had  made,  Penelope  came  and  showed  herself 
that  day  to  the  suitors ;  and  Minerva  made  her  that  she 
appeared  never  so  comely  in  their  sight  as  that  day,  and 
they  were  inflamed  with  the  beholding  of  so  much  beauty, 
proposed  as  the  price  of  so  great  manhood ;  and  they 
cried  out,  that  if  all  those  heroes  who  sailed  to  Colchos 
for  the  rich  purchase  of  the  golden-fleeced  ram,  had  seen 
earth's  richer  prize,  Penelope,  they  would  not  have  made 
their  voyage,  but  would  have  vowed  their  valours  and 
their  lives  to  her,  for  she  was  at  all  parts  faultless. 

And  she  said,  "  The  gods  have  taken  my  beauty  from 
me,  since  my  lord  went  for  Troy."  But  Telemachus 
willed  his  mother  to  depart  and  not  be  present  at  that 
contest,  for  he  said,  "It  may  be,  some  rougher  strife 
shall  chance  of  this,  than  may  be  expedient  for  a  woman 
to  witness."  And  she  retired,  she  and  her  maids,  and 
left  the  hall. 

Then  the  bow  was  brought  into  the  midst,  and  a  mark 
was  set  up  by  prince  Telemachus  :  and  lord  Antinous  as 
the  chief  among  the  suitors  had  the  first  offer,  and  he 
took  the  bow  and  fitting  an  arrow  to  the  string,  he  strove 
to  beud  it,  but  not  with  all  his  might  and  main  could  he 
once  draw  together  the  ends  of  that  tough  bow;  and 
when  he  found  how  vain  a  tiling  it  was  to  endeavour  to 
draw  Ulysses'  bow,  he  desisted,  blushing  for  shame  and 
for  mere  auger.  Then  Eurymachus  adventured,  but  with 
no  better  success ;  but  as  it  had  torn  the  hands  of 
Antinous,  so  did  the  bow  tear  and  strain  his  hands,  and 


174  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

marred  his  delicate  fingers,  yet  could  he  not  once  stir  the 
string.  Then  called  he  to  the  attendants  to  bring  fat  and 
unctuous  matter,  which  melting  at  the  fire,  he  dipped  the 
bow  therein,  thinking  to  supple  it  and  make  it  more  pliable, 
but  not  with  all  the  helps  of  art  could  he  succeed  in  making 
it  to  move.  After  him  Liodes,  and  Arnphinomus,  and 
Polybus,  and  Eurynomus,  and  Polyctorides,  assayed  their 
strength,  but  not  any  one  of  them,  or  of  the  rest  of  those 
aspiring  suitors,  had  any  better  luck  :  yet  not  the  meanest 
of  them  there  but  thought  himself  well  worthy  of  Ulysses' 
wife,  though  to  shoot  with  Ulysses'  bow  the  completest 
champion  among  them  was  by  proof  found  too  feeble. 

Then  Ulysses  prayed  them  that  he  might  have  leave 
to  try ;  and  immediately  a  clamour  was  raised  among  the 
suitors,  because  of  his  petition,  and  they  scorned  and 
swelled  with  rage  at  his  presumption,  and  that  a  beggar 
should  seek  to  contend  in  a  game  of  such  noble  mastery. 
But  Telemachus  ordered  that  the  bow  should  be  given 
him,  and  that  he  should  have  leave  to  try,  since  they  had 
failed ;  "  for,"  he  said,  "  the  bow  is  mine,  to  give  or  to 
withhold  : "  and  none  durst  gainsay  the  prince. 

Then  Ulysses  gave  a  sign  to  his  son,  and  he  com- 
manded the  doors  of  the  hall  to  be  made  fast,  and  all 
wondered  at  his  words,  but  none  could  divine  the  cause. 
And  Ulysses  took  the  bow  into  his  hands,  and  before  he 
essayed  to  bend  it,  he  surveyed  it  at  all  parts  to  see 
whether,  by  long  lying  by,  it  had  contracted  any  stiffness 
which  hindered  the  drawing;  and  as  he  was  busied  in 
the  curious  surveying  of  his  bow,  some  of  the  suitors 
mocked  him  and  said,  "  Past  doubt  this  man  is  a  right 
cunning  archer,  and  knows  his  craft  well.  See  how  he 
turns  it  over  and  over,  and  looks  into  it  as  if  he  could 
see  through  the  wood."  And  others  said,  "We  wish 
some  one  would  tell  out  gold  into  our  laps  but  for  so  long 
a  time  as  he  shall  be  in  drawing  of  that  string."  But 
when  he  had  spent  some  little  time  in  making  proof  of 
the  bow,  and  had  found  it  to  be  in  good  plight,  like  as  a 
harper  in  tuning  of  his  harp  draws  out  a  string,  \vith 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  175 

such  ease  or  much  more  did  Ulysses  draw  to  the  head  the 
string  of  his  own  tough  bow,  and  in  letting  of  it  go,  it 
twanged  with  such  a  shrill  noise  as  a  swallow  makes 
when  it  sings  through  the  air;  which  so  much  amazed 
the  suitors,  that  their  colours  came  and  went,  and  the 
skies  gave  out  a  noise  of  thunder,  which  at  heart  cheered 
Ulysses,  for  he  knew  that  now  his  long  labours  by  the 
disposal  of  the  fates  drew  to  an  end.  Then  fitted  he  an 
arrow  to  the  bow,  and  drawing  it  to  the  head,  he  sent  it 
right  to  the  mark  which  the  prince  had  set  up.  Which 
done,  he  said  to  Telemachus,  "  You  have  got  no  disgrace 
yet  by  your  guest,  for  I  have  struck  the  mark  I  shot  at, 
and  gave  myself  no  such  trouble  in  teasing  the  bow  with 
fat  and  fire,  as  these  men  did,  but  have  made  proof  that 
my  strength  is  not  impaired,  nor  my  age  so  weak  and 
contemptible  as  these  were  pleased  to  think  it.  But 
come,  the  day  going  down  calls  us  to  supper,  after  which 
succeed  poem  and  harp,  and  all  delights  which  use  to 
crown  princely  banquetings." 

So  saying,  he  beckoned  to  his  son,  who  straight  girt 
his  sword  to  his  side,  and  took  one  of  the  lances  (of 
which  there  lay  great  store  from  the  armoury)  in  his 
hand,  and  armed  at  all  points,  advanced  towards  his 
father. 

The  upper  rags  which  Ulysses  wore  fell  from  his 
shoulder,  and  his  own  kingly  likeness  returned,  when  he 
rushed  to  the  great  hall  door  with  bow  and  quiver  full 
of  shafts,  which  down  at  his  feet  he  poured,  and  in  bitter 
words  presignified  his  deadly  intent  to  the  suitors. 
"Thus  far,"  he  said,  "this  contest  has  been  decided 
harmless :  now  for  us  there  rests  another  mark,  harder 
to  hit,  but  which  my  hands  shall  essay  notwithstanding, 
if  Phoebus,  god  of  archers,  be  pleased  to  give  me  mastery." 
"With  that  he  let  fly  a  deadly  arrow  at  Autinous,  which 
pierced  him  in  the  throat  as  he  was  in  the  act  of  lifting 
a  cup  of  wine  to  his  mouth.  Amazement  seized  the 
suitors,  as  their  great  champion  fell  dead,  and  they  raged 
highly  against  Ulysses,  and  said  that  it  should  prove  the 


176       THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

dearest  shaft  which  he  ever  let  fly,  for  he  had  slain  a  man, 
whose  like  breathed  not  in  any  part  of  the  kingdom  :  and 
they  flew  to  their  arms,  and  would  have  seized  the  lances, 
but  Minerva  struck  them  with  dimness  of  sight  that  they 
went  erring  up  and  down  the  hall,  not  knowing  where  to 
find  them.  Yet  so  infatuated  were  they  by  the  dis- 
pleasure of  heaven,  that  they  did  not  see  the  imminent 
peril  which  impended  over  them,  but  every  man  believed 
that  this  accident  had  happened  beside  the  intention  of 
the  doer.  Fools  !  to  think  by  shutting  their  eyes  to 
evade  destiny,  or  that  any  other  cup  remained  for  them, 
but  that  which  their  great  Antinous  had  tasted  ! 

Then  Ulysses  revealed  himself  to  all  in  that  presence, 
and  that  he  was  the  man  whom  they  held  to  be  dead  at 
Troy,  whose  palace  they  had  usurped,  whose  wife  in  bis 
lifetime  they  had  sought  in  impious  marriage,  and  that 
for  this  reason  destruction  was  come  upon  them.  And 
he  dealt  his  deadly  arrows  among  them,  and  there  was  no 
avoiding  him,  nor  escaping  from  his  horrid  person,  and 
Telemachus  by  his  side  plied  them  thick  with  those 
murderous  lances  from  which  there  was  no  retreat,  till 
fear  itself  made  them  valiant,  and  danger  gave  them  eyes 
to  understand  the  peril ;  then  they  which  had  swords 
drew  them,  and  some  with  shields,  that  could  find  them, 
and  some  with  tables  and  benches  snatched  up  in  haste, 
rose  in  a  mass  to  overwhelm  and  crush  those  two ;  yet 
they  singly  bestirred  themselves  like  men,  and  defended 
themselves  against  that  great  host,  and  through  tables, 
shields  and  all,  right  through  the  arrows  of  Ulysses  clove, 
and  the  irresistible  lances  of  Telemachus ;  and  many  lay 
dead,  and  all  had  wounds,  and  Minerva  in  the  likeness  of 
a  bird  sate  upon  the  beam  which  went  across  the  hall, 
clapping  her  wings  with  a  fearful  noise,  and  sometimes 
the  great  bird  would  fly  among  them,  cuffing  at  the 
swords  and  at  the  lances,  and  up  and  down  the  hall 
would  go,  beating  her  wings,  and  troubling  everything, 
that  it  was  frightful  to  behold,  and  it  frayed  the  blood 
from  the  cheeks  of  those  heaven-hated  suitors :  but  to 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  177 

Ulysses  and  his  son  she  appeared  in  her  own  divine 
similitude,  with  her  snake-fringed  shield,  a  goddess  armed, 
righting  their  battles.  Nor  did  that  dreadful  pair  desist 
till  they  had  laid  all  their  foes  at  their  feet.  At  their 
feet  they  lay  in  shoals ;  like  fishes,  when  the  fishermen 
break  up  their  nets,  so  they  lay  gasping  and  sprawling  at 
the  feet  of  Ulysses  and  his  son.  And  Ulysses  remem- 
bered the  prediction  of  Tiresias,  which  said  that  he  was 
to  perish  by  his  own  guests,  unless  he  slew  those  who 
knew  him  not. 

Then  certain  of  the  queen's  household  went  up  and 
told  Penelope  what  had  happened,  and  how  her  lord 
Ulysses  had  come  home,  and  had  slain  the  suitors.  But 
she  gave  no  heed  to  their  words,  but  thought  that  some 
frenzy  possessed  them,  or  that  they  mocked  her  :  for  it  is 
the  property  of  such  extremes  of  sorrow  as  she  had  felt, 
not  to  believe  when  any  great  joy  cometh.  And  she 
rated  and  chid  them  exceedingly  for  troubling  her.  But 
they  the  more  persisted  in  their  asseverations  of  the 
truth  of  what  they  had  affirmed ;  and  some  of  them  had 
seen  the  slaughtered  bodies  of  the  suitors  dragged  forth 
of  the  hall.  And  they  said,  "  That  poor  guest  whom  you 
talked  with  last  night  was  Ulysses."  Then  she  was  yet 
more  fully  persuaded  that  they  mocked  her,  and  she  wept. 
But  they  said,  "  This  thing  is  true  which  we  have  told. 
We  sat  within,  in  an  inner  room  in  the  palace,  and  the 
doors  of  the  hall  were  shut  on  us,  but  we  heard  the  cries 
and  the  groans  of  the  men  that  were  killed,  but  saw 
nothing,  till  at  length  your  son  called  to  us  to  come  in, 
and  entering  we  saw  Ulysses  standing  in  the  midst  of  the 
slaughtered."  But  she  persisting  in  her  unbelief,  said, 
that  it  was  some  god  which  had  deceived  them  to  think 
it  was  the  person  of  Ulysses. 

By  this  time  Telemachus  and  his  father  had  cleansed 
their  hands  from  the  slaughter,  and  were  come  to  where 
the  queen  was  talking  with  those  of  her  household ;  and 
when  she  saw  Ulysses,  she  stood  motionless,  and  had  nc 
power  to  speak,  sudden 'surprise  and  joy  and  fear  and 

N 


178       THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES. 

many  passions  so  strove  within  her.  Sometimes  she  was 
clear  that  it  was  her  husband  that  she  saw,  and  sometime.': 
the  alterations  which  twenty  years  had  made  in  his  person 
(yet  that  was  not  much)  perplexed  her  that  she  knew  not 
what  to  think,  and  for  joy  she  could  not  believe ;  anq 
yet  for  joy  she  would  not  but  believe ;  and,  above  allj 
that  sudden  change  from  a  beggar  to  a  king  troubled  her, 
and  wrought  uneasy  scruples  in  her  mind.  But  Tele- 
machus  seeing  her  strangeness,  blamed  her,  and  called 
lier  an  ungentle  and  tyrannous  mother  !  and  said  that  sho 
showed  a  too  great  curiousness  of  modesty,  to  abstain 
from  embracing  his  father,  and  to  have  doubts  of  hia 
person,  when  to  all  present  it  was  evident  that  he  was 
the  very  real  and  true  Ulysses. 

Then  she  mistrusted  no  longer,  but  ran  and  fell  upon 
Ulysses'  neck,  and  said,  "  Let  not  my  husband  be  angry, 
that  I  held  off  so  long  with  strange  delays;  it  is  the 
gods,  who  severing  us  for  so  long  time,  have  caused  this 
unseemly  distance  in  me.  If  Menelaus'  wife  had  used 
half  my  caution,  she  would  never  have  taken  so  freely  to 
a  stranger's  bed ;  and  she  might  have  spared  us  all  these 
plagues  which  have  come  upon  us  through  her  shameless 
deed." 

These  words  with  which  Penelope  excused  herself, 
wrought  more  affection  in  Ulysses  than  if  upon  a  first 
sight  she  had  given  up  herself  implicitly  to  his  embraces  ; 
and  he  wept  for  joy  to  possess  a  wife  so  discreet,  so 
answering  to  his  own  staid  mind,  that  had  a  depth  of  wit 
proportioned  to  his  own,  and  one  that  held  chaste  virtue 
at  so  high  a  price,  and  he  thought  the  possession  of  such 
a  one  cheaply  purchased  with  the  loss  of  all  Circe's 
delights,  and  Calypso's  immortality  of  joys;  and  his  long 
labours  and  his  severe  sufferings  past  seemed  as  nothing, 
now  they  were  crowned  with  the  enjoyment  of  his  vir- 
tuous and  true  wife  Penelope.  And  as  sad  men  at  sea 
whose  ship  has  gone  to  pieces  nigh  shore,  swimming  for 
their  lives,  all  drenched  in  foam  and  brine,  crawl  up  to 
some  poor  patch  of  land,  which'  they  take  possession  of 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ULYSSES.  179 

with  as  great  a  joy  as  if  they  had  the  world  given  them 
in  fee,  with  such  delight  did  this  chaste  wife  cling  to  her 
lord  restored,  till  the  dark  night  fast  coming  on  reminded 
her  of  that  more  intimate  and  happy  union  when  in  her 
long-widowed  bed  she  should  once  again  clasp  a  living 
Ulysses. 

So  from  that  time  the  land  had  rest  from  the  suitors. 
And  the  happy  Ithacans  with  songs  and  solemn  sacrifices 
of  praise  to  the  gods  celebrated  the  return  of  Ulysses : 
for  he  that  had  been  so  long  absent  was  returned  to 
wreak  the  evil  upon  the  heads  of  the  doers ;  in  the  place 
where  they  had  done  the  evil,  there  wreaked  he  his 
vengeance  upon  them. 


GUY   FAUX. 

A  VERY  ingenious  and  subtle  writer,  whom  there  is  good 
reason  for  suspecting  to  be  an  ex-Jesuit,  not  unknown  at 
Douay  some  five -and -twenty  years  since  (he  will  not 

obtrude  himself  at  M th  again  in  a  hurry),  about  a 

twelvemonth  back  set  himself  to  prove  the  character  of 
the  Powder  Plot  Conspirators  to  have  been  that  of  heroic 
self-devotedness  and  true  Christian  martyrdom.  Under 
the  mask  of  Protestant  candour,  he  actually  gained  ad- 
mission for  his  treatise  into  a  London  weekly  paper  not 
particularly  distinguished  for  its  zeal  towards  either 
religion.  But,  admitting  Catholic  principles,  his  argu- 
ments are  shrewd  and  incontrovertible.  He  says  : — 

"  Guy  Faux  was  a  fanatic ;  but  he  was  no  hypocrite. 
He  ranks  among  good  liaters.  He  was  cruel,  bloody- 
minded,  reckless  of  all  considerations  but  those  of  an 
infuriated  and  bigoted  faith ;  but  he  was  a  true  son  of 
the  Catholic  Church,  a  martyr,  and  a  confessor,  for  all 
that.  He  who  can  prevail  upon  himself  to  devote  his 
life  to  a  cause,  however  we  may  condemn  his  opinions  or 
abhor  his  actions,  vouches  at  least  for  the  honesty  of  his 
principles  and  the  disinterestedness  of  his  motives.  He 
may  be  guilty  of  the  worst  practices ;  but  he  is  capable 
of  the  greatest.  He  is  no  longer  a  slave,  but  free.  The 
contempt  of  death  is  the  beginning  of  virtue.  The  hero 
of  the  Gunpowder  Plot  was,  if  you  will,  a  fool,  a  mad- 
man, an  assassin  ;  call  him  what  names  you  please  :  still 
he  was  neither  knave  nor  coward.  He  did  not  propose 


GUY  FAUX.  181 

to  blow  up  the  Parliament,  and  come  off  scot-free  himself ; 
he  showed  that  he  valued  his  own  life  no  more  than 
theirs  in  such  a  cause,  where  the  integrity  of  the  Catholic 
faith  and  the  salvation  of  perhaps  millions  of  souls  was 
at  stake.  He  did  not  call  it  a  murder,  but  a  sacrifice, 
which  he  was  about  to  achieve ;  he  was  armed  with  the 
Holy  Spirit  and  with  fire ;  he  was  the  Church's  chosen 
servant,  and  her  blessed  martyr.  He  comforted  himself 
as  'the  best  of  cut-throats.'  How  many  wretches  are 
there  who  would  have  undertaken  to  do  what  he  intended 
for  a  sum  of  money,  if  they  could  have  got  off  with  im- 
punity !  How  few  are  there  who  would  have  put  them- 
selves in  Guy  Faux's  situation  to  save  the  universe  !  Yet, 
in  the  latter  case,  we  affect  to  be  thrown  into  greater 
consternation  than  at  the  most  unredeemed  acts  of  villainy; 
as  if  the  absolute  disinterestedness  of  the  motive  doubled 
the  horror  of  the  deed  !  The  cowardice  and  selfishness 
of  mankind  are  in  fact  shocked  at  the  consequences  to 
themselves  (if  such  examples  are  held  up  for  imitation) ; 
and  they  make  a  fearful  outcry  against  the  violation  of 
every  principle  of  morality,  lest  they,  too,  should  be  called 
on  for  any  such  tremendous  sacrifices ;  lest  they  in  their 
turn,  should  have  to  go  on  the  forlorn  hope  of  extra-official 
duty.  Charity  begins  at  home,  is  a  maxim  that  prevails 
as  well  in  the  courts  of  consciousness  as  in  those  of 
prudence.  We  would  be  thought  to  shudder  at  the  con- 
sequences of  crime  to  others,  while  we  tremble  for  them 
to  ourselves.  We  talk  of  the  dark  and  cowardly  assassin  ; 
and  this  is  well,  when  an  individual  shrinks  from  the  face 
of  an  enemy,  and  purchases  his  own  safety  by  striking  a 
blow  in  the  dark ;  but  how  the  charge  of  cowardly  can 
be  applied  to  the  public  assassin,  who,  in  the  very  act  of 
destroying  another,  lays  down  his  life  as  the  pledge  and 
forfeit  of  his  sincerity  and  boldness,  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
devise.  There  may  be  barbarous  prejudice,  rooted  hatred, 
unprincipled  treachery  in  such  an  act ;  but  he  who 
resolves  to  take  all  the  danger  and  odium  upon  himself 
can  no  more  be  branded  with  cowardice  than  Regulus 


182  GUY  FAUX. 

devoting  himself  for  his  country,  or  Codrus  leaping  into 
the  fiery  gulf.  A  wily  Father  Inquisitor,  coolly  and  with 
plenary  authority  condemning  hundreds  of  helpless,  un- 
offending victims  to  the  flames,  or  the  horrors  of  a  living 
tomb,  while  he  himself  would  not  suffer  a  hair  of  his 
head  to  be  hurt,  is,  to  me,  a  character  without  any 
qualifying  trait  in  it.  Again :  The  Spanish  conqueror 
and  hero,  the  favourite  of  his  monarch,  who  enticed 
thirty  thousand  poor  Mexicans  into  a  large  open  building 
under  promise  of  strict  faith  and  cordial  good-will,  and 
then  set  fire  to  it,  making  sport  of  the  cries  and  agonies 
of  these  deluded  creatures,  is  an  instance  of  uniting  the 
most  hardened  cruelty  with  the  most  heartless  selfishness. 
His  plea  was,  keeping  no  faith  with  heretics ;  this  was 
Guy  Faux's  too :  but  I  am  sure  at  least  that  the  latter 
kept  faith  with  himself;  he  was  in  earnest  in  his  profes- 
sions. His  was  not  gay,  wanton,  unfeeling  depravity; 
he  did  not  murder  in  sport :  it  was  serious  work  that  he 
had  taken  in  hand.  To  see  this  arch-bigot,  this  heart- 
whole  traitor,  this  pale  miner  in  the  infernal  regions, 
skulking  in  his  retreat  with  his  cloak  and  dark  lantern, 
moving  cautiously  about  among  his  barrels  of  gunpowder 
loaded  with  death,  but  not  yet  ripe  for  destruction,  regard- 
less of  the  lives  of  others,  and  more  than  indifferent  to 
his  own,  presents  a  picture  of  the  strange  infatuation  of 
the  human  understanding,  but  not  of  the  depravity  of 
the  human  will,  without  an  equal.  There  were  thousands 
of  pious  Papists  privy  to  and  ready  to  applaud  the  deed 
when  done;  there  was  no  one  but  our  old  fifth -of- 
November  friend,  who  still  flutters  in  rags  and  straw  on 
the  occasion,  that  had  the  courage  to  attempt  it.  In  him 
stern  duty  and  unshaken  faith  prevailed  over  natural 
frailty." 

It  is  impossible,  upon  Catholic  principles,  not  to  admit 
the  force  of  this  reasoning :  we  can  only  not  help  smiling 
(with  the  writer)  at  the  simplicity  of  the  gulled  editor, 
swallowing  the  dregs  of  Loyola  for  the  very  quintessence 
of  sublimated  reason  in  England  at  the  commencement  of 


GUY  FAUX.  18 3 

the  nineteenth  century.  We  will  just,  as  a  contrast, 
show  what  we  Protestants  (who  are  a  party  concerned) 
thought  upon  the  same  subject  at  a  period  rather  nearer 
to  the  heroic  project  in  question. 

The  Gunpowder  Treason  was  the  subject  which  called 
forth  the  earliest  specimen  which  is  left  us  of  the  pulpit 
eloquence  of  Jeremy  Taylor.  When  he  preached  the 
sermon  on  that  anniversary,  which  is  printed  at  the  end 
of  the  folio  edition  of  his  Sermons,  he  was  a  young  man, 
just  commencing  his  ministry  under  the  auspices  of 
Archbishop  Laud.  From  the  learning  and  maturest 
oratory  which  it  manifests,  one  should  rather  have  con- 
jectured it  to  have  proceeded  from  the  same  person  after 
he  was  ripened  by  time  into  a  Bishop  and  Father  of  the 
Church.  "And,  really,  these  Romano -barbari  could 
never  pretend  to  any  precedent  for  an  act  so  barbarous 
as  theirs.  Adramelech,  indeed,  killed  a  king;  but  he 
spared  the  people.  Haman  would  have  killed  the  people, 
but  spared  the  king;  but  that  both  king  and  people, 
princes  and  judges,  branch  and  rush  and  root,  should  die 
at  once  (as  if  Caligula's  wish  were  actuated,  and  all 
England  upon  one  head),  was  never  known  till  now,  that 
all  the  malice  of  the  world  met  in  this  as  in  a  centre. 
The  Sicilian  even-song,  the  matins  of  St.  Bartholomew, 
known  for  the  pitiless  and  damned  massacres,  were  but 
KO.TTVOV  enacts  ovap,  the  dream  of  the  shadow  of  smoke, 
if  compared  with  this  great  fire.  In  tarn  occupato  saeculo 
fabvlas  vulgar es  nequitia  non  invenit.  This  was  a  busy 
age.  Herostratus  must  have  invented  a  more  sublimed 
malice  than  the  burning  of  one  temple,  or  not  have  been 
so  much  as  spoke  of  since  the  discovery  of  the  powder 
treason.  But  I  must  make  more  haste ;  I  shall  not  else 
climb  the  sublimity  of  this  impiety.  Nero  was  some- 
times the  populare  odium,  was  popularly  hated,  and 
deserved  it  too :  for  he  slew  his  master,  and  his  wife, 
and  all  his  family,  once  or  twice  over ;  opened  his 
mother's  womb  ;  fired  the  city,  laughed  at  it,  slandered 
the  Christians  for  it :  but  yet  all  these  were  but  principia 


184  GUY  FAUX. 

vialorum,  the  very  first  rudiments  of  evil.  Add,  then, 
to  these,  Herod's  masterpiece  at  Ramah,  as  it  was 
deciphered  by  the  tears  and  sad  threnes  of  the  matrons  in 
a-  universal  mourning  for  the  loss  of  their  pretty  infants  ; 
yet  this  of  Herod  will  prove  but  an  infant  wickedness, 
and  that  of  Nero  the  evil  but  of  one  city.  I  would 
willingly  have  found  out  an  example,  but  see  I  cannot. 
Should  I  put  into  the  scale  the  extract  of  the  old  tyrants 
famous  in  antique  stories  : — 

'  Bistonii  stabulum  regis,  Busiridis  aras, 
Aiitiphate  meiisas,  et  Taurica  regua  Thoantis  ; ' — 

should  I  take  for  true  story  the  highest  cruelty  as  it  was 
fancied  by  the  most  hieroglyphical  Egyptian, — this  alone 
would  weigh  them  down,  as  if  the  Alps  were  put  in  scale 
against  the  dust  of  a  balance.  For,  had  this  accursed 
treason  prospered,  we  should  have  had  the  whole  kingdom 
mourn  for  the  inestimable  loss  of  its  chiefest  glory,  its 
life,  its  present  joy,  and  all  its  very  hopes  for  the  future. 
For  such  was  their  destined  malice,  that  they  would  not 
only  have  inflicted  so  cruel  a  blow,  but  have  made  it 
incurable,  by  cutting  off  our  supplies  of  joy,  the  whole 
succession  of  the  Line  Royal.  Not  only  the  vine  itself, 
but  all  the  gemmulce,  and  the  tender  olive  branches, 
should  either  have  been  bent  to  their  intentions,  and 
made  to  grow  crooked,  or  else  been  broken. 

"And  now,  after  such  a  sublimity  of  malice,  I  will 
not  instance  in  the  sacrilegious  ruin  of  the  neighbouring 
temples,  which  needs  must  have  perished  in  the  flame ; 
nor  in  the  disturbing  the  ashes  of  our  entombed  kings, 
devouring  their  dead  ruins  like  sepulchral  dogs  :  these  are 
but  minutes  in  respect  of  the  ruin  prepared  for  the  living 
temples  : — 

1  Stragem  sed  istam  non  tulit 
Christus  cadentum  Principum 
Impune,  ne  forsan  sui 
Patris  periret  fabrica. 
Ergo  quae  potent  lingua  retexere 
Laudes,  Christe,  tuas,  qui  doniitum  struis 
InSdum  populum  cum  Duce  perfido  !'" 


GUY  FAUX.  185 

In  such  strains  of  eloquent  indignation  did  Jeremy 
Taylor's  young  oratory  inveigh  against  that  stupendous 
attempt  which  he  truly  says  had  no  parallel  in  ancient  or 
modern  times.  A  century  and  a  half  of  European  crimes 
has  elapsed  since  he  made  the  assertion,  and  his  position 
remains  in  its  strength.  He  wrote  near  the  time  in 
which  the  nefarious  project  had  like  to  have  been  com- 
pleted. Men's  minds  still  were  shuddering  from  the 
recentness  of  the  escape.  It  must  have  been  within  his 
memory,  or  have  been  sounded  in  his  ears  so  young  by 
his  parents,  that  he  would  seem,  in  his  maturer  years,  to 
have  remembered  it.  No  wonder,  then,  that  he  describes 
it  in  words  that  burn.  But  to  us,  to  whom  the  tradition 
has  come  slowly  down,  and  has  had  time  to  cool,  the 
story  of  Guido  Vaux  sounds  rather  like  a  tale,  a  fable, 
and  an  invention,  than  time  history.  It  supposes  such 
gigantic  audacity  of  daring,  combined  with  such  more 
than  infantile  stupidity  in  the  motive, — such  a  combina- 
tion of  the  fiend  and  the  monkey,  that  credulity  is  almost 
swallowed  up  in  contemplating  the  singularity  of  the 
attempt.  It  has  accordingly,  in  some  degree,  shared  the 
fate  of  fiction.  It  is  familiarised  to  us  in  a  kind  of  serio- 
ludicrous  way,  like  the  story  of  Guy  of  Warwick  or 
Valentine  and  Orson.  The  way  which  we  take  to  per- 
petuate the  memory  of  this  deliverance  is  well  adapted  to 
keep  up  this  fabular  notion.  Boys  go  about  the  streets 
annually  with  a  beggarly  scarecrow  dressed  up,  which  is 
to  be  burnt  indeed,  at  night,  with  holy  zeal ;  but,  mean- 
time, they  beg  a  penny  for  poor  Guy:  this  periodical 
petition,  which  we  have  heard  from  our  infancy,  combined 
with  the  dress  and  appearance  of  the  effigy,  so  well  calcu- 
lated to  move  compassion,  has  the  effect  of  quite  removing 
from  our  fancy  the  horrid  circumstances  of  the  story  which 
is  thus  commemorated ;  and  in  poor  Guy  vainly  should  we 
try  to  recognise  any  of  the  features  of  that  tremendous 
madman  in  iniquity,  Guido  Vaux,  with  his  horrid  crew 
of  accomplices,  that  sought  to  emulate  earthquakes  and 
bursting  volcanoes  in  their  more  than  mortal  mischief. 


186  GUY  FAUX. 

Indeed,  the  whole  ceremony  of  burning  Guy  Faux,  or 
the  Pope,  as  he  is  indifferently  called,  is  a  sort  of  Treason 
Travestie,  and  admirably  adapted  to  lower  our  feelings 
upon  this  memorable  subject.  The  printers  of  the  little 
duodecimo  Prayer  Book,  printed  by  T.  Baskett, l  in 
1749,  which  has  the  effigy  of  his  sacred  majesty  George 
II.  piously  prefixed,  have  illustrated  the  service  (a  very 
fine  one  in  itself)  which  is  appointed  for  the  anniversary 
of  this  day  with  a  print  which  it  is  not  very  easy  to 
describe  ;  but  the  contents  appear  to  be  these  :  The  scene 
is  a  room,  I  conjecture  in  the  king's  palace.  Two  persons 
— one  of  whom  I  take  to  be  James  himself,  from  his 
wearing  his  hat,  while  the  other  stands  bareheaded — are 
intently  surveying  a  sort  of  speculum,  or  magic  mirror, 
which  stands  upon  a  pedestal  in  the  midst  of  the  room, 
in  which  a  little  figure  of  Guy  Faux  with  his  dark  lantern, 
approaching  the  door  of  the  Parliament  House,  is  made 
discernible  by  the  light  proceeding  from  a  great  eye  which 
shines  in  from  the  topmost  corner  of  the  apartment ;  by 
which  eye  the  pious  artist  no  doubt  meant  to  designate 
Providence.  On  the  other  side  of  the  mirror  is  a  figure 
doing  something,  which  puzzled  me  when  a  child,  and 
continues  to  puzzle  me  now.  The  best  I  can  make  of  it 
is,  that  it  is  a  conspirator  busy  laying  the  train;  but 
then,  why  is  he  represented  in  the  king's  chamber? 
Conjecture  upon  so  fantastical  a  design  is  vain ;  and  I 
only  notice  the  print  as  being  one  of  the  earliest  graphic 
representations  which  woke  my  childhood  into  wonder, 
and  doubtless  combined,  with  the  mummery  before 
mentioned,  to  take  off  the  edge  of  that  horror  which  the 
naked  historical  mention  of  Guido's  conspiracy  could  not 
have  failed  of  exciting. 

1  The  same,  I  presume,  upon  whom  the  clergyman  in  the  song 
of  the  "Vicar  and  Moses,"  not  without  judgment,  passes  this 
memorable  censure  : 

"  Here,  Moses  the  king  : 
'Tis  a  scandalous  thing 
That  this  Baskett  should  print  for  the  Crown, " 


GUY  FAUX.  187 

Now  that  so  many  years  are  past  since  that  abominable 
machination  was  happily  frustrated,  it  will  not,  I  hope, 
be  considered  a  profane  sporting  with  the  subject  if  we 
take  no  very  serious  survey  of  the  consequences  that  would 
have  flowed  from  this  plot  if  it  had  had  a  successful  issue. 
The  first  thing  that  strikes  us,  in  a  selfish  point  of  view, 
is  the  material  change  which  it  must  have  produced  in 
the  course  of  the  nobility.  All  the  ancient  peerage  being 
extinguished,  as  it  was  intended,  at  one  blow,  the  Red 
Book  must  have  been  closed  for  ever,  or  a  new  race  of 
peers  must  have  been  created  to  supply  the  deficiency. 
As  the  first  part  of  this  dilemma  is  a  deal  too  shocking 
to  think  of,  what  a  fund  of  mouth-watering  reflections 
does  this  give  rise  to  in  the  breast  of  us  plebeians  of  A.D. 
1823  !  Why,  you  or  I,  reader,  might  have  been  Duke 

of ,  or  Earl  of .     I  particularise  no  titles,  to 

avoid  the  least  suspicion  of  intention  to  usurp  the  dignities 
of  the  two  noblemen  whom  I  have  in  my  eye ;  but  a 
feeling  more  dignified  than  envy  sometimes  excites  a 
sigh,  when  I  think  how  the  posterity  of  Guide's  Legion 
of  Honour  (among  whom  you  or  I  might  have  been)  might 
have  rolled  down  "dulcified,"  as  Burke  expresses  it,  "by 
an  exposure  to  the  influence  of  heaven  in  a  long  flow  of 
generations,  from  the  hard,  acidulous,  metallic  tincture 
of  the  spring." l  What  new  orders  of  merit,  think  you, 
this  English  Napoleon  would  have  chosen  1  Knights  of 
the  Barrel,  or  Lords  of  the  Tub,  Grand  Almoners  of  the 
Cellar,  or  Ministers  of  Explosion  ?  We  should  have  given 
the  train  couchant,  and  the  fire  rampant,  in  our  arms ; 
we  should  have  quartered  the  dozen  white  matches  in 
our  coats  :  the  Shallows  would  have  been  nothing  to  us. 

Turning  away  from  these  mortifying  reflections,  let  us 
contemplate  its  effects  upon  the  other  house ;  for  they 
were  all  to  have  gone  together, — king,  lords,  commons. 

To  assist  our  imagination,  let  us  take  leave  to  suppose 
(and  we  do  it  in  the  harmless  wantonness  of  fancy)  that 
the  tremendous  explosion  had  taken  place  in  our  days. 
1  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord. 


188  GUY  FAUX. 

"We  better  know  what  a  House  of  Commons  is  in  our 
days,  and  can  better  estimate  our  loss.  Let  us  imagine, 
then,  to  ourselves,  the  united  members  sitting  in  fall 
conclave  above;  Faux  just  ready  with  his  train  and 
matches  below, — in  his  hand  a  "  reed  tipt  with  fire."  He 
applies  the  fatal  engine . 

To  assist  our  notions  still  further,  let  us  suppose  some 
lucky  dog  of  a  reporter,  who  had  escaped  by  miracle  upon 
some  plank  of  St.  Stephen's  benches,  and  came  plump 
upon  the  roof  of  the  adjacent  Abbey,  from  whence 
descending,  at  some  neighbouring  coffee-house,  first  wiping 
his  clothes  and  calling  for  a  glass  of  lemonade,  he  sits 
down  and  reports  what  he  had  heard  and  seen  (quorum 
pars  magna  fuit),  for  the  Morning  Post  or  the  Courier. 
We  can  scarcely  imagine  him  describing  the  event  in  any 
other  words  but  some  such  as  these  : — 

"  A  Motion  was  put  and  carried,  that  this  House  do 
adjourn  ;  that  the  Speaker  do  quit  the  chair.  The  House 
ROSE  amid  clamours  for  Order." 

In  some  such  way  the  event  might  most  technically 
have  been  conveyed  to  the  public.  But  a  poetical  mind, 
not  content  with  this  dry  method  of  narration,  cannot 
help  pursuing  the  effects  of  this  tremendous  blowing  up, 
this  adjournment  in  the  air,  sine  die.  It  sees  the 
benches  mount, — the  Chair  first,  and  then  the  benches ; 
and  first  the  Treasury  Bench,  hurried  up  in  this  nitrous 
explosion, — the  Members,  as  it  were,  pairing  off;  Whigs 
and  Tories  taking  their  friendly  apotheosis  together  (as 
they  did  their  sandwiches  below  in  Bellamy's  room). 
Fancy,  in  her  flight,  keeps  pace  with  the  aspiring  legis- 
lators :  she  sees  the  awful  seat  of  order  mounting,  till 
it  becomes  finally  fixed,  a  constellation,  next  to  Cassi- 
opeia's chair, — the  wig  of  him  that  sat  in  it  taking 
its  place  near  Berenice's  curls.  St.  Peter,  at  heaven's 
wicket, — no,  not  St.  Peter, — St.  Stephen,  with  open 
arms,  receives  his  own . 

While  Fancy  beholds  these  Celestial  appropriations, 
Reason,  no  less  pleased,  discerns  the  mighty  benefit  which 


GUY  FAUX.  189 

so  complete  a  renovation  must  produce  below.  Let  the 
most  determined  foe  to  corruption,  the  most  thorough- 
paced redresser  of  abuses,  try  to  conceive  a  more  absolute 
purification  of  the  House  than  this  was  calculated  to 
produce.  Why,  Pride's  Purge  was  nothing  to  it.  The 
whole  borough-mongering  system  would  have  been  got 
rid  of,  fairly  exploded ;  with  it  the  senseless  distinctions 
of  party  must  have  disappeared,  faction  must  have 
vanished,  corruption  have  expired  in  the  air.  From 
Hundred,  Tything,  and  Wapentake,  some  new  Alfred 
would  have  convened,  in  all  its  purity,  the  primitive 
Witenagemote, — fixed  upon  a  basis  of  property  or  popu- 
lation permanent  as  the  poles . 

From  this  dream  of  universal  restitution,  Reason  and 
Fancy  with  difficulty  awake  to  view  the  real  state  of 
things.  But,  blessed  be  Heaven !  St.  Stephen's  walls 
are  standing,  all  her  seats  firmly  secured ;  nay,  some  have 
doubted  (since  the  Septennial  Act)  whether  gunpowder 
itself,  or  anything  short  of  a  committee  above  stairs,  would 
be  able  to  shake  any  one  member  from  his  seat ; — that 
great  and  final  improvement  to  the  Abbey,  which  is  all 
that  seems  wanting, — the  removing  Westminster  Hall 
and  its  appendages,  and  letting  in  the  view  of  the 
Thames, — must  not  be  expected  in  our  days.  Dismissing, 
therefore,  all  such  speculations  as  mere  tales  of  a  tub,  it 
is  the  duty  of  every  honest  Englishman  to  endeavour, 
by  means  less  wholesale  than  Guide's,  to  ameliorate, 
without  extinguishing  parliaments  ;  to  hold  the  lantern, 
to  the  dark  places  of  corruption ;  to  apply  the  match  to 
the  rotten  parts  of  the  system  only ;  and  to  wrap  himself 
up,  not  in  the  muffling  mantle  of  conspiracy,  but  in  the 
warm  honest  cloak  of  integrity  and  patriotic  intention. 


ON  THE  AMBIGUITIES  ARISING  FROM 
PROPEK  NAMES. 

How  oddly  it  happens  that  the  same  sound  shall  suggest 
to  the  minds  of  two  persons  hearing  it  ideas  the  most 
opposite !  I  was  conversing,  a  few  years  since,  with  a 
young  friend  upon  the  subject  of  poetry,  and  particularly 
that  species  of  it  which  is  known  by  the  name  of  the 
Epithalamium.  I  ventured  to  assert  that  the  most  perfect 
specimen  of  it  in  our  language  was  the  Epithalamium  of 
Spenser  upon  his  own  marriage. 

My  young  gentleman,  who  has  a  smattering  of  taste, 
and  would  not  willingly  be  thought  ignorant  of  anything 
remotely  connected  with  the  belles-lettres,  expressed  a 
degree  of  surprise,  mixed  with  mortification,  that  he 
should  never  have  heard  of  this  poem  ;  Spenser  being  an 
author  with  whose  writings  he  thought  himself  peculiarly 
conversant. 

I  offered  to  show  him  the  poem  in  the  fine  folio  copy 
of  the  poet's  works  which  I  have  at  home.  He  seemed 
pleased  with  the  offer,  though  the  mention  of  the  folio 
seemed  again  to  puzzle  him.  But,  presently  after, 
assuming  a  grave  look,  he  compassionately  muttered  to 
himself,  "  Poor  Spencer  !" 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  with  which  he  spoke 
these  words  that  struck  me  not  a  little.  It  was  more 
like  the  accent  with  which  a  man  bemoans  some  recent 
calamity  that  has  happened  to  a  friend  than  that  tone 
of  sober  grief  with  which  we  lament  the  sorrows  of  a 


AMBIGUITIES  ARISING  FROM  PROPER  NAMES.      191 

person,  however  excellent  and  however  grievous  his 
afflictions  may  have  been,  who  has  been  dead  more  than 
two  centuries.  I  had  the  curiosity  to  inquire  into  the 
reasons  of  so  uncommon  an  ejaculation.  My  young  gentle- 
man, with  a  more  solemn  tone  of  pathos  than  before, 
repeated,  "  Poor  Speucer  !"  and  added,  "He  has  lost  his 
wife  !" 

My  astonishment  at  this  assertion  rose  to  such  a 
height,  that  I  began  to  think  the  brain  of  my  young 
friend  must  be  cracked,  or  some  unaccountable  reverie 
had  gotten  possession  of  it.  But,  upon  further  explana- 
tion, it  appeared  that  the  word  "Spenser" — which  to 
you  or  me,  reader,  in  a  conversation  upon  poetry  too, 
would  naturally  have  called  up  the  idea  of  an  old  poet  in 
a  ruff,  one  Edmund  Spenser,  that  flourished  in  the  days 
of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  wrote  a  poem  called  "  The  Faery 
Queene,"  with  "  The  Shepherd's  Calendar,"  and  many 
more  verses  besides — did,  in  the  mind  of  my  young  friend, 
excite  a  very  different  and  quite  modern  idea ;  namely, 
that  of  the  Honourable  William  Spencer,  one  of  the  living 
ornaments,  if  I  am  not  misinformed,  of  this  present 
poetical  era,  AJ>.  1811, 


ON  THE  CUSTOM  OF  HISSING  AT  THE 
THEATEES. 

WITH  SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  A  CLUB  OF  DAMNED  AUTHORS. 

MR.  REFLECTOR — I  am  one  of  those  persons  whom  the 
world  has  thought  proper  to  designate  by  the  title  of 
Damned  Authors.  In  that  memorable  season  of  dramatic 
failures,  1806-7, — in  which  no  fewer,  I  think,  than  two 
tragedies,  four  comedies,  one  opera,  and  three  farces 
suffered  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre, — I  was  found  guilty  of 
constructing  an  afterpiece,  and  was  damned. 

Against  the  decision  of  the  public  in  such  instances 
there  can  be  no  appeal.  The  Clerk  of  Chatham  might  as 
well  have  protested  against  the  decision  of  Cade  and  his 
followers  who  were  then  the  public.  Like  him,  I  was 
condemned  because  I  could  write. 

Not  but  it  did  appear  to  some  of  us  that  the  measures 
of  the  popular  tribunal  at  that  period  savoured  a  little  of 
harshness  and  of  the  summumjus.  The  public  mouth 
was  early  in  the  season  fleshed  upon  the  "Vindictive 
Man,"  and  some  pieces  of  that  nature ;  and  it  retained, 
through  the  remainder  of  it,  a  relish  of  blood.  As  Dr. 
Johnson  would  have  said,  "  Sir,  there  was  a  habit  of 
sibilation  in  the  house." 

Still  less  am  I  disposed  to  inquire  into  the  reason  of 
the  comparative  lenity,  on  the  other  hand,  with  which 
some  pieces  were  treated,  which,  to  indifferent  judges, 


ON  THE  CUSTOM  OF  HISSING  AT  THE  THEATRES.    193 

seemed  at  least  as  much  deserving  of  condemnation  as 
some  of  those  which  met  with  it.  I  am  willing  to  put 
a  favourable  construction  upon  the  votes  that  were  given 
against  us ;  I  believe  that  there  was  no  bribery  or 
designed  partiality  in  the  case :  only  "  our  nonsense  did 
not  happen  to  suit  their  nonsense;"  that  was  all 

But  against  the  manner  in  which  the  public,  on  these 
occasions,  think  fit  to  deliver  their  disapprobation,  I  must 
and  ever  will  protest. 

Sir,  imagine — but  you  have  been  present  at  the 
damning  of  a  piece — those  who  never  had  that  felicity,  I 
beg  them  to  imagine — a  vast  theatre,  like  that  which 
Drury  Lane  was  before  it  was  a  heap  of  dust  and  ashes 
(I  insult  not  over  its  fallen  greatness ;  let  it  recover  itself 
when  it  can  for  me,  let  it  lift  up  its  towering  head  once 
more,  and  take  in  poor  authors  to  write  for  it ;  hie  ccestus 
artemque  repono), — a  theatre  like  that,  filled  with  all 
sorts  of  disgusting  sounds, — shrieks,  groans,  hisses,  but 
chiefly  the  last,  like  the  noise  of  many  waters,  or  that 
which  Don  Quixote  heard  from  the  fulling-mills,  or  that 
wilder  combination  of  devilish  sounds  which  St.  Anthony 
listened  to  in  the  wilderness. 

Oh  !  Mr.  Reflector,  is  it  not  a  pity  that  the  sweet 
human  voice,  which  was  given  man  to  speak  with,  to  sing 
with,  to  whisper  tones  of  love  in,  to  express  compliance, 
to  convey  a  favour,  or  to  grant  a  suit, — that  voice,  which 
in  a  Siddons  or  a  Braham  rouses  us,  in  a  Siren  Catalani 
charms  and  captivates  us, — that  the  musical,  expressive 
human  voice  should  be  converted  into  a  rival  of  the 
noises  of  silly  geese,  and  irrational,  venomous  snakes  ? 

I  never  shall  forget  the  sounds  on  my  night.  I  never 
before  that  time  fully  felt  the  reception  which  the  Author 
of  All  111,  in  the  "  Paradise  Lost/'  meets  with  from  the 
critics  in  the  pit,  at  the  final  close  of  his  Tragedy  upon 
the  Human  Race, — though  that,  alas!  met  with  too 
much  success : — 

"  From  inmimerable  tongues 
A  dismal  universal  hiss,  the  sound 
o 


194  ON  THE  CUSTOM  OF  HISSING  AT  THE  THEATRES. 

Of  public  scorn.     Dreadful  was  the  din 
Of  hissing  through  the  hall,  thick  swarming  now 
With  complicated  monsters,  head  and  tail, 
Scorpion  and  asp,  and  Ainphisbfena  dire, 
Cerastes  horn'd,  Hydrus,  and  Elops  drear, 
And  Dipsas." 

For  hall  substitute  theatre,  and  you  have  the  very 
image  of  what  takes  place  at  what  is  called  the  damnation 
of  a  piece, — and  properly  so  called ;  for  here  you  see  its 
origin  plainly,  whence  the  custom  was  derived,  and  what 
the  first  piece  was  that  so  suffered.  After  this,  none  can 
doubt  the  propriety  of  the  appellation. 

But,  sir,  as  to  the  justice  of  bestowing  such  appalling, 
heart -withering  denunciations  of  the  popular  obloquy 
upou  the  venial  mistake  of  a  poor  author,  who  thought 
to  please  us  in  the  act  of  filling  his  pockets, — for  the  sum 
of  his  demerits  amounts  to  no  more  than  that, — it  does, 
I  own,  seem  to  me  a  species  of  retributive  justice  far  too 
severe  for  the  offence.  A  culprit  in  the  pillory  (bate  the 
eggs)  meets  with  no  severer  exprobration. 

Indeed,  I  have  often  wondered  that  some  modest 
critic  has  not  proposed  that  there  should  be  a  wooden 
machine  to  that  effect  erected  in  some  convenient  part  of 
the  proscenium,  which  an  unsuccessful  author  should  be 
required  to  mount,  and  stand  his  hour,  exposed  to  the 
apples  and  oranges  of  the  pit.  This  amende  honorable 
would  well  suit  with  the  meanness  of  some  authors,  who, 
in  their  prologues  fairly  prostrate  their  skulls  to  the 
audience,  and  seem  to  invite  a  pelting. 

Or  why  should  they  not  have  their  pens  publicly 
broke  over  their  heads,  as  the  swords  of  recreant  knights 
in  old  times  were,  and  an  oath  administered  to  them  that 
they  should  never  write  again  ? 

Seriously,  Messieurs  the  Public,  this  outrageous  way 
which  you  have  got  of  expressing  your  displeasures  is  too 
much  for  the  occasion.  When  I  was  deafening  under  the 
effects  of  it,  I  could  not  help  asking  what  crime  of  great 
moral  turpitude  I  had  committed :  for  every  man  about 
me  seemed  to  feel  the  offence  as  personal  to  himself:  as 


ON  THE  CUSTOM  OF  HISSING  AT  THE  THEATRES.    195 

something  which  public  interest  and  private  feelings 
alike  called  upon  him  in  the  strongest  possible  manner, 
to  stigmatise  with  infamy. 

The  Romans,  it  is  well-known  to  you,  Mr.  Reflector, 
took  a  gentler  method  of  marking  their  disapprobation  of 
an  author's  work.  They  were  a  humane  and  equitable 
nation.  They  left  the  furca  and  the  patibulum,  the  axe 
and  the  rods,  to  great  offenders :  for  these  minor  and  (if 
I  may  so  term  them)  extra-moral  offences,  the  bent  thumb 
was  considered  as  a  sufficient  sign  of  disapprobation, — 
vertere  potticem  ;  as  the  pressed  thumb,  premere  pollicem, 
was  a  mark  cf  approving. 

And  really  there  seems  to  have  been  a  sort  of  fitness 
in  this  method,  a  correspondency  of  sign  in  the  punish- 
ment to  the  offence.  For,  as  the  action  of  writing  is 
performed  by  bending  the  thumb  forward,  the  retroversion 
or  bending  back  of  that  joint  did  not  unaptly  point  to 
the  opposite  of  that  action ;  implying  that  it  was  the 
will  of  the  audience  that  the  author  should  write  no 
more :  a  much  more  significant  as  well  as  more  humane 
way  of  expressing  that  desire  than  our  custom  of  hissing, 
which  is  altogether  senseless  and  indefensible.  Nor  do 
we  find  that  the  Roman  audiences  deprived  themselves, 
by  this  lenity,  of  any  tittle  of  that  supremacy  which 
audiences  in  all  ages  have  thought  themselves  bound  to 
maintain  over  such  as  have  been  candidates  for  their 
applause.  On  the  contrary,  by  this  method  they  seem  to 
have  had  the  author,  as  we  should  express  it,  completely 
und^r  finger  and  thumb. 

The  provocations  to  which  a  dramatic  genius  is  exposed 
from  the  public  are  so  much  the  more  vexatious  as  they 
are  removed  from  any  possibility  of  retaliation,  which 
sweetens  most  other  injuries  ;  for  the  public  never  ivrites 
itself.  Not  but  something  very  like  it  took  place  at  the 
time  of  the  O.P.  difference?.  The  placards  which  were 
nightly  exhibited  were,  properly  speaking,  the  composi- 
tion of  the  public.  The  public  wrote  them,  the  public 
applauded  them ;  and  precious  morceaux  of  wit  and 


196  ON  THE  CUSTOM  OF  HISSING  AT  THE  THEATRES. 

eloquence  they  were, — except  some  few  of  a  better 
quality,  which  it  is  well  known  were  furnished  by 
professed  dramatic  writers.  After  this  specimen  of  what 
the  public  can  do  for  itself,  it  should  be  a  little  slow  in 
condemning  what  others  do  for  it. 

As  the  degrees  of  malignancy  vary  in  people  according 
as  they  have  more  or  less  of  the  Old  Serpent  (the  father 
of  hisses)  in  their  composition,  I  have  sometimes  amused 
myself  with  analysing  this  many -headed  hydra,  which 
calls  itself  the  public,  into  the  component  parts  of  which 
it  is  "  complicated,  head  and  tail,"  and  seeing  how  many 
varieties  of  the  snake  kind  it  can  afford. 

First,  there  is  the  Common  English  Snake. — This  is 
that  part  of  the  auditory  who  are  always  the  majority  at 
damnations ;  but  who,  having  no  critical  venom  in  them- 
selves to  sting  them  on,  stay  till  they  hear  others  hiss, 
and  then  join  in  for  company. 

The  Blind  Worm  is  a  species  very  nearly  allied  to  the 
foregoing.  Some  naturalists  have  doubted  whether  they 
are  not  the  same. 

The  Rattlesnake. — These  are  your  obstreperous  talking 
critics, — the  impertinent  guides  of  the  pit, — who  will  not 
give  a  plain  man  leave  to  enjoy  an  evening's  entertain- 
ment ;  but  with  their  frothy  jargon  and  incessant  finding 
of  faults,  either  drown  his  pleasure  quite,  or  force  him,  in 
his  own  defence,  to  join  in  their  clamorous  censure.  The 
hiss  always  originates  with  these.  When  tins  creature 
springs  his  rattle,  you  would  think,  from  the  noise  it 
makes,  there  was  something  in  it ;  but  you  have  only  to 
examine  the  instrument  from  which  the  noise  proceeds, 
and  you  will  find  it  typical  of  a  critic's  tongue, — a  shallow 
membrane,  empty,  voluble,  and  seated  in  the  most  con- 
temptible part  of  the  creature's  body. 

The  Whipsnake. — This  is  he  that  lashes  the  poor 
author  the  next  day  in  the  newspapers. 

The  Deaf  Adder,  or  Surda  Echidna  of  Linnaeus. — 
Under  this  head  may  be  classed  all  that  portion  of  the 
spectators  (for  audience  they  properly  are  not),  who,  not 


ON  THE  CUSTOM  OF  HISSING  AT  THE  THEATRES.   197 

finding  the  first  act  of  a  piece  answer  to  their  precon- 
ceived notions  of  what  a  first  act  should  be,  like  Obstinate 
in  John  Bunyan,  positively  thrust  their  fingers  in  their 
ears,  that  they  may  not  hear  a  word  of  what  is  coming, 
though  perhaps  the  very  next  act  may  be  composed  in  a 
style  as  different  as  possible,  and  be  written  quite  to  their 
own  tastes.  These  adders  refuse  to  hear  the  voice  of  the 
charmer,  because  the  tuning  of  his  instrument  gave  them 
offence. 

I  should  weary  you  and  myself  too,  if  I  were  to  go 
through  all  the  classes  of  the  serpent  kind.  Two  qualities 
are  common  to  them  all.  They  are  creatures  of  remark- 
ably cold  digestions,  and  chiefly  haunt  pits  and  low 
grounds. 

I  proceed  with  more  pleasure  to  give  you  an  account 
of  a  club  to  which  I  have  the  honour  to  belong.  There 
are  fourteen  of  us,  who  are  all  authors  that  have  been 
once  in  our  lives  what  is  called  damned.  We  meet  ou 
the  anniversary  of  our  respective  nights,  and  make  our- 
selves merry  at  the  expense  of  the  public.  The  chief 
tenets  which  distinguish  our  society,  and  which  every 
man  among  us  is  bound  to  hold  for  gospel,  are — 

That  the  public,  or  mob,  in  all  ages  have  been  a  set  of 
blind,  deaf,  obstinate,  sensele.-s,  illiterate  savages.  That 
no  man  of  genius,  in  his  senses,  would  be  ambitious  of 
pleasing  such  a  capricious,  ungrateful  rabble.  That  the 
only  legitimate  end  of  writing  for  them  is  to  pick  their 
pockets ;  and,  that  failing,  we  are  at  full  liberty  to  vilify 
and  abuse  them  as  much  as  ever  we  think  fit. 

That  authors,  by  their  affected  pretences  to  humility, 
which  they  made  use  of  as  a  cloak  to  insinuate  their 
writings  into  the  callous  senses  of  the  multitude,  obtuse 
to  everything  but  the  grossest  flattery,  have  by  degrees 
made  that  great  beast  their  master ;  as  we  may  act 
submission  to  children  tilt  we  are  obliged  to  practise  it 
in  earnest.  That  authors  are  and  ought  to  be  considered 
the  masters  and  preceptors  of  the  public,  and  not  vice 


198  ON  THE  CUSTOM  OF  HISSING  AT  THE  THEATRES. 

versd.  That  it  was  so  iu  the  days  of  Orpheus,  Linus, 
and  Musaeus ;  and  would  be  so  again,  if  it  were  not  that 
writers  prove  traitors  to  themselves.  That,  in  particular, 
in  the  days  of  the  first  of  those  three  great  authors  just 
mentioned,  audiences  appear  to  have  been  perfect  models 
of  what  audiences  should  be ;  for  though,  along  with  the 
trees  and  the  rocks  and  the  wild  creatures  which  he  drew 
after  him  to  listen  to  his  strains,  some  serpents  doubtless 
came  to  hear  his  music,  it  does  not  appear  that  any  one 
among  them  ever  lifted  up  a  dissentient  voice.  They 
knew  what  was  due  to  authors  in  those  days.  Now 
every  stock  and  stone  turns  into  a  serpent,  and  has  a 
voice. 

That  the  terms  "Courteous  Reader"  and  "Candid 
Auditors,"  as  having  given  rise  to  a  false  notion  in  those 
to  whom  they  were  applied,  as  if  they  conferred  upon 
them  some  right,  which  they  cannot  have,  of  exercising 
their  judgments,  ought  to  be  utterly  banished  and  ex- 
ploded. 

These  are  our  distinguishing  tenets.  To  keep  up 
the  memory  of  the  cause  in  which  we  suffered,  as  the 
ancients  sacrificed  a  goat,  a  supposed  unhealthy  animal, 
to  JSsculapius,  on  our  feast-nights  we  cut  up  a  goose,  an 
animal  typical  of  the  popular  voice,  to  the  deities  of 
Candour  and  Patient  Hearing.  A  zealous  member  of 
the  society  once  proposed  that  we  should  revive  the 
obsolete  luxury  of  viper-broth  ;  but  the  stomachs  of  some 
of  the  company  rising  at  the  proposition,  we  lost  the 
benefit  of  that  highly  salutary  and  antidotal  dish. 

The  privilege  of  admission  to  our  club  is  strictly 
limited  to  such  as  have  been  fairly  damned.  A  piece 
that  has  met  with  ever  so  little  applause,  that  has  but 
languished  its  night  or  two,  and  then  gone  out,  will 
never  entitle  its  author  to  a  seat  among  us.  An  excep- 
tion to  our  usual  readiness  in  conferring  this  privilege  is 
in  the  case  of  a  writer,  who,  having  been  once  condemned, 
writes  again,  and  becomes  candidate  for  a  second  martyr- 
dom. Simple  damnation  we  hold  to  be  a  merit ;  but  to 


ON  THE  CUSTOM  OF  HISSING  AT  THE  THEATRES.    199 

be  twice-damned  we  adjudge  infamous.     Such  a  one  we 
utterly  reject,  and  blackball  without  a  hearing  : — 

"  The  common  damned  shun  his  society." 

Hoping  that  your  publication  of  our  Regulations  may 
be  a  means  of  inviting  some  more  members  into  our 
society,  I  conclude  this  long  letter. 

I  am,  Sir,  yours, 

SEMEL-D  AMNA  TUS. 


THE  GOOD  CLERK,  A  CHARACTER ; 

WITH    SOME    ACCOUNT     OF     "THE     COMPLETE     ENGLISH 
TRADESMAN." 

THE  Good  Clerk. — He  \vriteth  a  fair  and  swift  hand,  and 
is  competently  versed  in  the  four  first  rules  of  arithmetic, 
in  the  Rule  of  Three  (which  is  sometimes  called  the 
Golden  Rule),  and  in  Practice.  We  mention  these  things 
that  we  may  leave  no  room  for  cavillers  to  say  that  any- 
thing essential  hath  been  omitted  in  our  definition  ;  else, 
to  speak  the  truth,  these  are  but  ordinary  accomplish- 
ments, and  such  as  every  understrapper  at  a  desk  is 
commonly  furnished  with.  The  character  we  treat  of 
soareth  higher. 

He  is  clean  and  neat  in  his  person ;  not  from  a  vain- 
glorious desire  of  setting  himself  forth  to  advantage  in 
the  eyes  of  the  other  sex  (with  which  vanity  too  many  of 
our  young  sparks  nowadays  are  infected),  but  to  do 
credit,  as  we  say,  to  the  office.  For  this  reason,  he  ever- 
more taketh  care  that  his  desk  or  his  books  receive  no 
soil ;  the  which  things  he  is  commonly  as  solicitous  to 
have  fair  and  unblemished,  as  the  owner  of  a  fine  horse  is 
to  have  him  appear  in  good  keep. 

He  riseth  early  in  the  morning;  not  because  early 
rising  conduceth  to  health  (though  he  doth  not  altogether 
despise  that  consideration),  but  chiefly  to  the  intent  that 
he  may  be  first  at  the  desk.  There  is  his  post, — there 
he  delighteth  to  be,  unless  when  his  meals  or  necessity 


THE  GOOD  CLERK.  201 

calleth  him  away ;  which  time  he  alway  esteemeth  as  loss, 
and  maketh  as  short  as  possible. 

He  is  temperate  in  eating  and  drinking,  that  he  may 
preserve  a  clear  head  and  steady  hand  for  his  master's 
service.  He  is  also  partly  induced  to  this  observation  to 
the  rules  of  temperance  by  his  respect  for  religion  and  the 
laws  of  his  country ;  which  things,  it  may  once  for  all  be 
noted,  do  add  special  assistances  to  his  actions,  but  do 
not  and  cannot  furnish  the  mainspring  or  motive  thereto. 
His  first  ambition,  as  appeareth  all  along,  is  to  be  a  good 
Clerk ;  his  next,  a  good  Christian,  a  good  Patriot,  etc. 

Correspondent  to  this,  he  keepeth  himself  honest,  not 
for  fear  of  the  laws,  but  because  he  hath  observed  how 
unseemly  an  article  it  maketh  in  the  Day-Book  or  Ledger 
when  a  sum  is  set  down  lost  or  missing;  it  being  his 
pride  to  make  these  books  to  agree  and  to  tally,  the  one 
side  with  the  other,  with  a  sort  of  architectural  symmetry 
and  correspondence. 

He  marrieth,  or  marrieth  not,  as  best  suiteth  with  his 
employer's  views.  Some  merchants  do  the  rather  desire 
to  have  married  men  in  their  Counting-houses,  because 
they  think  the  married  state  a  pledge  for  their  servants' 
integrity,  and  an  incitement  to  them  to  be  industrious ; 
and  it  was  an  observation  of  a  late  Lord  Mayor  of  London, 
that  the  sons  of  clerks  do  generally  prove  clerks  them- 
selves, and  that  merchants  encouraging  persons  in  their 
employ  to  marry,  and  to  have  families,  was  the  best 
method  of  securing  a  breed  of  sober,  industrious  young 
men  attached  to  the  mercantile  interest.  Be  this  as  it 
may,  such  a  character  as  we  have  been  describing  will 
wait  till  the  pleasure  of  his  employer  is  known  on  this 
point ;  and  regulateth  his  desires  by  the  custom  of  the 
house  or  firm  to  which  he  belongeth. 

He  avoideth  profane  oaths  and  jesting,  as  so  much 
time  lost  from  his  employ;  what  spare  time  he  hath 
for  conversation,  which,  in  a  counting-house  such  as  we 
have  been  supposing,  can  be  but  small,  he  spendeth  in 
putting  seasonable  questions  to  such  of  his  fellows  (and 


202  THE  GOOD  CLERK. 

sometimes  respectfully  to  the  master  himself)  who  car. 
give  him  information  respecting  the  price  and  quality  of 
goods,  the  state  of  exchange,  or  the  latest  improvements 
in  book-keeping  ;  thus  making  the  motion  of  his  lips,  as 
well  as  of  his  fingers,  subservient  to  his  master's  interest. 
Not  that  he  refuseth  a  brisk  saying,  or  a  cheerful  sally  of 
wit,  when  it  comes  unforced,  is  free  of  offence,  and  hath 
a  convenient  brevity.  For  this  reason,  he  hath  commonly 
some  such  phrase  as  this  in  his  mouth  : — 

It's  a  slovenly  look 

To  blot  your  book. 
Or, 

Red  ink  for  ornament,  black  for  use : 
The  best  of  things  are  open  to  abuse. 

So  upon  the  eve  of  any  great  holy-day,  of  which  he 
keepeth  one  or  two  at  least  every  year,  he  will  merrily 
say,  in  the  hearing  of  a  confidential  friend,  but  to  none 
other, — 

All  work  and  no  play 
Makes  Jack  a  dull  boy. 

Or, 

A  bow  always  bent  must  crack  at  last. 

But  then  this  must  always  be  understood  to  be  spoken 
confidentially,  and,  as  we  say,  under  the  rose. 

Lastly,  his  dress  is  plain,  without  singularity ;  with 
no  other  ornament  than  the  quill,  which  is  the  badge  of 
his  function,  stuck  behind  the  dexter  ear,  and  this  rather 
for  convenience  of  having  it  at  hand,  when  he  hath  been 
called  away  from  his  desk,  md  expecteth  to  resume  his 
seat  there  again  shortly,  than  from  any  delight  which  he 
taketh  in  foppery  or  ostentation.  The  colour  of  his 
clothes  is  generally  noted  to  be  black  rather  than  brown, 
brown  rather  than  blue  or  green.  His  whole  deportment 
is  staid,  modest,  and  civil.  His  motto  is  Regularity . 

This  Character  was  sketched  in  an  interval  of  business, 
to  divert  some  of  the  melancholy  hours  of  a  Counting- 
house.  It  is  so  little  a  creature  of  fancy,  that  it  is  scarce 


THE  GOOD  CLERK.  203 

anything  more  than  a  recollection  of  some  of  those  frugal 
and  economical  maxims  which,  about  the  beginning  of  the 
last  century  (England's  meanest  period),  were  endeavoured 
to  be  inculcated  and  instilled  into  the  breasts  of  the 
London  Apprentices1  by  a  class  of  instructors  who  might 
not  inaptly  be  termed  The  Masters  of  Mean  Morals. 
The  astonishing  narrowness  and  illiberality  of  the  lessons 
contained  in  some  of  those  books  is  inconceivable  by  those 
whose  studies  have  not  led  them  that  way,  and  would 
almost  induce  one  to  subscribe  to  the  hard  censure  which 
Drayton  has  passed  upon  the  mercantile  spirit : — 

The  gripple  merchant,  born  to  be  the  curse 
Of  this  brave  isle. 

I  have  now  lying  before  me  that  curious  book  by  Daniel 
Defoe,  The  Complete  English  Tradesman.  The  pom- 
pous detail,  the  studied  analysis  of  every  little  mean  art, 
every  sneaking  address,  every  trick  and  subterfuge  short 
of  larceny,  that  is  necessary  to  the  tradesman's  occupation, 
with  the  hundreds  of  anecdotes,  dialogues  (in  Defoe's 
liveliest  manner)  interspersed,  all  tending  to  the  same 
amiable  purpose, — namely,  the  sacrificing  of  every  honest 
emotion  of  the  soul  to  what  he  calls  the  main  chance, — if 
you  read  it  in  an  ironical  sense,  and  as  a  piece  of  covered 
satire,  make  it  one  of  the  most  amusing  books  which 
Defoe  ever  writ,  as  much  so  as  any  of  his  best  novels. 
It  is  difficult  to  say  what  his  intention  was  in  writing  it. 
It  is  almost  impossible  to  suppose  him  in  earnest.  Yet 
such  is  the  bent  of  the  book  to  narrow  and  to  degrade 
the  heart,  that  if  such  maxims  were  as  catching  and  in- 
fectious as  those  of  a  licentious  cast,  which  happily  is  not 
the  case,  had  I  been  living  at  that  time,  I  certainly  should 
have  recommended  to  the  Grand  Jury  of  Middlesex, 
who  presented  The  Fable  of  the  Bees,  to  have  presented 
this  book  of  Defoe's  in  preference,  as  of  a  far  more  vile 

1  This  term  designated  a  larger  class  of  young  men  than  that 
to  which  it  is  now  confined.  It  took  in  the  articled  cleiks  of 
merchants  and  bankers,  the  George  Baruwells  of  the  day. 


204  THE  GOOD  CLERK. 

and  debasing  tendency.  I  will  give  one  specimen  of  his 
advice  to  the  young  tradesman  on  the  Government  of  his 
Temper :  "  The  retail  tradesman  in  especial,  and  even 
every  tradesman  in  his  station,  must  furnish  himself  with 
a  competent  stock  of  patience.  I  mean  that  sort  of 
patience  which  is  needful  to  bear  with  all  sorts  of  im- 
pertinence, and  the  most  provoking  curiosity  that  it  is 
possible  to  imagine  the  buyers,  even  the  worst  of  them, 
are,  or  can  be,  guilty  of.  A  tradesman  behind  his  counter 
must  have  no  flesh  and  blood  about  him,  no  passions,  no 
resentment ;  he  must  never  be  angry, — no,  not  so  much 
as  seem  to  be  so,  if  a  customer  tumbles  him  five  hundred 
pounds'  worth  of  goods,  and  scarce  bids  money  for  any- 
thing ;  nay,  though  they  really  come  to  his  shop  with  no 
intent  to  buy,  as  many  do,  only  to  see  what  is  to  be  sold, 
and  though  he  knows  they  cannot  be  better  pleased  than 
they  are  at  some  other  shop  where  they  intend  to  buy, 
'tis  all  one ;  the  tradesman  must  take  it ;  he  must  place 
it  to  the  account  of  his  calling,  that  'tis  his  business  to  be 
ill  used  and  resent  nothing ;  and  so  must  answer  as 
obligingly  to  those  that  give  him  an  hour  or  two's  trouble 
and  buy  nothing,  as  he  does  to  those  who,  in  half  the 
time,  lay  out  ten  or  twenty  pounds.  The  case  is  plain ; 
and  if  some  do  give  him  trouble,  and  do  not  buy,  others 
make  amends,  and  do  buy ;  and  as  for  the  trouble,  'tis 
the  business  of  the  shop." 

Here  follows  a  most  admirable  story  of  a  mercer  who, 
by  his  indefatigable  meanness  and  more  than  Socratic 
patience  under  affronts,  overcame  and  reconciled  a  lady, 
who,  upon  the  report  of  another  lady  that  he  had  behaved 
saucily  to  some  third  lady,  had  determined  to  shun  his 
shop,  but,  by  the  over-persuasions  of  a  fourth  lady,  was 
induced  to  go  to  it ;  which  she  does,  declaring  beforehand 
that  she  will  buy  nothing,  but  give  him  all  the  trouble 
she  can.  Her  attack  and  his  defence,  her  insolence  and 
his  persevering  patience,  are  described  in  colours  worthy 
of  a  Mandeville ;  but  it  is  too  long  to  recite.  "  The 
short  inference  from  this  long  discourse,"  says  he,  "is 


THE  GOOD  CLERK.  205 

this,  —  that  here  you  see,  and  I  could  give  you  many 
examples  like  this,  how  and  in  what  manner  a  shopkeeper 
is  to  behave  himself  in  the  way  of  his  business ;  what 
impertinences,  what  taunts,  flouts,  and  ridiculous  things 
he  must  bear  in  his  trade,  and  must  not  show  the  least 
return,  or  the  least  signal  of  disgust :  he  must  have  no 
passions,  no  fire  in  his  temper ;  he  must  be  all  soft  and 
smooth  ;  nay,  if  his  real  temper  be  naturally  fiery  and 
hot,  he  must  show  none  of  it  in  his  shop ;  he  must  be  a 
perfect  complete  hypocrite,  if  he  will  be  a  complete  trades- 
man.1 "  It  is  true,  natural  tempers  are  not  to  be  always 
counterfeited :  the  man  cannot  easily  be  a  lamb  in  his 
shop  and  a  lion  in  himself;  but,  let  it  be  easy  or  hard, 
it  must  be  done,  and  is  done.  There  are  men  who  have 
by  custom  and  usage  brought  themselves  to  it,  that 
nothing  could  be  meeker  and  milder  than  they  when 
behind  the  counter,  and  yet  nothing  be  more  furious  and 
raging  in  every  other  part  of  life  :  nay,  the  provocations 
they  have  met  with  in  their  shops  have  so  irritated  their 
rage,  that  they  would  go  upstairs  from  their  shop,  and 
fall  into  frenzies,  and  a  kind  of  madness,  and  beat  their 
heads  against  the  wall,  and  perhaps  mischief  themselves, 
if  not  prevented,  till  the  violence  of  it  had  gotten  vent, 
and  the  passions  abate  and  cool.  I  heard  once  of  a  shop- 
keeper that  behaved  himself  thus  to  such  an  extreme, 
that  when  he  was  provoked  by  the  impertinence  of  the 
customers  beyond  what  his  temper  could  bear,  he  would 
go  upstairs  and  beat  his  wife,  kick  his  children  about  like 
dogs,  and  be  as  furious  for  two  or  three  minutes  as  a  man 
chained  down  in  Bedlam  ;  and  again,  when  that  heat  was 
over,  would  sit  down  and  cry  faster  than  the  children  he 
had  abused ;  and,  after  the  fit,  he  would  go  down  into 
the  shop  again,  and  be  as  humble,  courteous,  and  as  calm 
as  any  man  whatever ;  so  absolute  a  government  of  his 
passions  had  he  in  the  shop,  and  so  little  out  of  it :  in 
the  shop,  a  soulless  animal  that  would  resent  nothing ; 

1  As  no  qualification   accompanies   this   maxim,   it   must   be 
understood  as  the  genuine  sentiment  of  the  author  ! 


206  THE  GOOD  CLERK. 

and  in  the  family,  a  madman :  in  the  shop,  meek  like  a 
lamb  ;  but  in  the  family  outrageous,  like  a  Libyan  lion. 
The  sum  of  the  matter  is,  it  is  necessary  for  a  tradesman 
to  subject  himself,  by  all  the  ways  possible,  to  his  busi- 
ness ;  his  customers  are  to  be  his  idols  ;  so  far  as  he  may 
worship  idols,  by  allowance,  he  is  to  bow  down  to  them, 
and  worship  them ;  at  least  he  is  not  in  any  way  to  dis- 
please them,  or  show  any  disgust  or  distaste  whatsoever 
they  may  say  or  do.  The  bottom  of  all  is  that  he  is 
intending  to  get  money  by  them ;  and  it  is  not  for  him 
that  gets  money  to  offer  the  least  inconvenience  to  them 
by  whom  he  gets  it :  he  is  to  consider  that,  as  Solomon 
says,  "the  borrower  is  servant  to  the  lender;  so  the 
seller  is  servant  to  the  buyer."  What  he  says  on  the 
head  of  "  Pleasures  and  Recreations  "  is  not  less  amusing  : 
"  The  tradesman's  pleasure  should  be  in  his  business  :  his 
companions  should  be  in  his  books  "  (he  means  his  Ledger, 
Waste-book,  etc),  "and  if  he  has  a  family  he  makes  his 
excursions  upstairs  and  no  further.  None  of  my  cautious 
aim  at  restraining  a  tradesman  from  diverting  himself,  as 
we  call  it,  with  his  fireside,  or  keeping  company  with  his 
wife  and  children."  Liberal  allowance !  nay,  almost 
licentious  and  criminal  indulgence !  But  it  is  time  to 
dismiss  this  Philosopher  of  Meanness.  More  of  this  stuff 
would  illiberalise  the  pages  of  the  Reflector.  Was  the 
man  in  earnest,  when  he  could  bring  such  powers  of 
description,  and  all  the  charms  of  natural  eloquence,  in 
commendation  of  the  meanest,  vilest,  wretchedest  degra- 
dations of  the  human  character?  or  did  he  not  rather 
laugh  in  his  sleeve  at  the  doctrines  which  he  inculcated ; 
and,  retorting  upon  the  grave  citizens  of  London  their 
own  arts,  palm  upon  them  a  sample  of  disguised  satire 
under  the  name  of  wholesome  Instruction  ? 


THE  REYNOLDS  GALLERY. 

THE  Reynolds  Gallery  has,  upon  the  whole,  disappointed 
me.  Some  of  the  portraits  are  interesting.  They  are 
faces  of  characters  whom  we  (middle-aged  gentlemen) 
were  born  a  little  too  late  to  remember,  but  about  whom 
we  have  heard  our  fathers  tell  stories  till  we  almost  fancy 
to  have  seen  them.  There  is  a  charm  in  the  portrait  of 
a  Rodney  or  a  Keppel,  which  even  a  picture  of  Nelson 
must  want  for  me.  I  should  turn  away  after  a  slight 
inspection  from  the  best  likeness  that  could  be  made  of 
Mrs.  Anne  Clarke;  but  Kitty  Fisher  is  a  considerable 
personage.  Then  the  dresses  of  some  of  the  women  so 
exactly  remind  us  of  modes  which  we  can  just  recall ;  of 
the  forms  under  which  the  venerable  relationship  of  aunt 
or  mother  first  presented  themselves  to  our  young  eyes ;  the 
aprons,  the  coifs,  the  lappets,  the  hoods.  Mercy  on  us  ! 
what  a  load  of  head  ornaments  seem  to  have  conspired  to 
bury  a  pretty  face  in  the  picture  of  Mrs.  Long,  yet  could 
not !  Beauty  must  have  some  "  charmed  life  "  to  have 
been  able  to  surmount  the  conspiracy  of  fashion  in  those 
days  to  destroy  it. 

The  portraits  which  least  pleased  me  were  those  of  boys 
as  infant  Bacchtises,  Jupiters,  etc.  But  the  artist  is  not 
to  be  blamed  for  the  disguise.  No  doubt  the  parents 
wished  to  see  their  children  deified  in  their  lifetime.  It 
was  but  putting  a  thunderbolt  (instead  of  a  squib)  into 
young  master's  hands  ;  and  a  whey-faced  chit  was  trans- 
formed into  the  infant  ruler  of  Olympus, — him  who  was 


208  THE  REYNOLDS  GALLERY. 

afterward  to  shake  heaven  and  earth  with  his  black  brow. 
Another  good  boy  pleased  his  grandmamma  so  well,  and 
the  blameless  dotage  of  the  good  old  woman  imagined  in 
him  an  adequate  representative  of  the  awful  Prophet 
Samuel.  But  the  great  historical  compositions,  where  t/te 
artist  was  at  liberty  to  paint  from  his  own  idea, — the 
Beaufort  and  the  Ugolino :  why  then,  I  must  confess, 
pleading  the  liberty  of  table-talk  for  my  presumption, 
that  they  have  not  left  any  very  elevating  impression  on 
my  mind.  Pardon  a  ludicrous  comparison.  I  know, 
madam,  you  admire  them  both  •  but  placed  opposite  to 
each  other  as  they  are  at  the  gallery,  as  if  to  set  the  one 
work  in  competition  with  the  other,  they  did  remind  me 
of  the  famous  contention  for  the  prize  of  deformity, 
mentioned  in  the  173d  Number  of  the  Spectator.  The 
one  stares,  and  the  other  grins ;  but  is  there  common 
dignity  in  their  countenances  ?  Does  anything  of  the 
history  of  their  life  gone  by  peep  through  the  ruins  of  the 
mind  in  the  face,  like  the  unconquerable  grandeur  that 
surmounts  the  distortions  of  the  Laocoon  1  The  figures 
which  stand  by  the  bed  of  Beaufort  are  indeed  happy 
representations  of  the  plain  uumanuered  old  nobility  of 
the  English  historical  plays  of  Shakspere;  but,  for  anything 
else ; — Give  me  leave  to  recommend  those  macaroons. 

After  leaving  the  Reynolds  Gallery  (where,  upon  the 
whole,  I  received  a  good  deal  of  pleasure),  and  feeling  that 
I  had  quite  had  my  fill  of  paintings,  I  stumbled  upon  a 
picture  in  Piccadilly  (No.  22,  I  think),  which  purports  to 
be  a  portrait  of  Francis  the  First,  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 
Heavens,  what  a  difference  !  It  is  but  a  portrait,  as  most 
of  those  I  had  been  seeing ;  but,  placed  by  them,  it  would 
kill  them,  swallow  them  up  as  Moses'  rod  the  other  rods. 
Where  did  these  old  painters  get  their  models  ?  I  see  no 
such  figures,  not  in  my  dreams,  as  this  Francis,  in  the  char- 
acter, or  rather  with  the  attributes,  of  John  the  Baptist. 
A  more  than  martial  majesty  in  the  brow  and  upon  the 
eyelid ;  an  arm,  muscular,  beautifully  formed ;  the  long, 
graceful,  massy  fingers  compressing,  yet  so  as  not  to  hurt. 


THE  REYNOLDS  GALLERY.  209 

a  lamb  more  lovely,  more  sweetly  shrinking,  than  we  can 
conceive  that  milk-white  one  which  followed  Una;  the 
picture  altogether  looking  as  if  it  were  eternal, — combining 
the  truth  of  flesh  with  a  promise  of  permanence  like 
marble. 

Leonardo,  from  the  one  or  two  specimens  we  have  of 
him  in  England,  must  have  been  a  stupendous  genius. 
I  can  scarce  think  he  has  had  his  full  fame— he  who  could 
paint  that  wonderful  personification  of  the  Logos,  or  second 
person  of  the  Trinity,  grasping  a  globe,  late  in  the 
possession  of  Mr.  Troward  of  Pall  Mall,  where  the  hand 
was,  by  the  boldest  licence,  twice  as  big  as  the  truth  of 
drawing  warranted ;  yet  the  effect,  to  every  one  that  saw 
it,  by  some  magic  of  genius  was  confessed  to  be  not 
monstrous,  but  miraculous  and  silencing.  It  could  not 
be  gainsaid. 


WOKDSWORTH'S  "  EXCUESION." 

The  Quarterly  Review,  October,  1814. 

THE  volume  before  us,  as  we  learn  from  the  Preface,  is 
"a  detached  portion  of  an  unfinished  poem,  containing 
views  of  man,  nature,  and  society;"  to  be  called  the 
Eecluse,  as  having  for  its  principal  subject  the  ''sensa- 
tions and  opinions  of  a  poet  living  in  retirement;"  and 
to  be  preceded  by  a  "  record  in  verse  of  the  origin  and 
progress  of  the  author's  own  powers,  with  reference  to 
the  fitness  which  they  may  be  supposed  to  have  conferred 
for  the  task."  To  the  completion  of  this  plan  we  look 
forward  with  a  confidence  which  the  execution  of  the 
finished  part  is  well  calculated  to  inspire. — Meanwhile, 
in  what  is  before  us  there  is  ample  matter  for  enter- 
tainment :  for  the  "  Excursion  "  is  not  a  branch  (as  might 
have  been  suspected)  prematurely  plucked  from  the  parent 
tree  to  gratify  an  overhasty  appetite  for  applause ;  but  is, 
in  itself,  a  complete  and  legitimate  production. 

It  opens  with  the  meeting  of  the  poet  with  an  aged 
man  whom  he  had  known  from  his  schooldays  ;  in  plain 
words,  a  Scottish  pedlar ;  a  man  who,  though  of  low 
origin,  had  received  good  learning  and  impressions  of  the 
strictest  piety  from  his  stepfather,  a  minister  and  village 
schoolmaster.  Among  the  hills  of  Athol,  the  child  is 
described  to  have  become  familiar  with  the  appearances 
of  nature  in  his  occupation  as  a  feeder  of  sheep ;  and 
from  her  silent  influences  to  have  derived  a  character, 
meditative,  tender,  and  poetical.  With  an  imagination 
and  feelings  thus  nourished — his  intellect  not  unaided  by 


WORDSWORTH'S  "EXCURSION."  211 

books,  b\tt  those,  few,  and  chiefly  of  a  religious  cast — the 
necessity  of  seeking  a  maintenance  in  riper  years  had 
induced  him  to  make  choice  of  a  profession,  the  appella- 
tion for  which  has  been  gradually  declining  into  contempt, 
but  which  formerly  designated  a  class  of  men,  who, 
journeying  in  country  places,  when  roads  presented  less 
facilities  for  travelling,  and  the  intercourse  between  towns 
and  villages  was  unfrequent  and  hazardous,  became  a  sort 
of  link  of  neighbourhood  to  distant  habitations ;  resem- 
bling, in  some  small  measure,  in  the  effects  of  their 
periodical  returns,  the  caravan  which  Thomson  so  feel- 
ingly describes  as  blessing  the  cheerless  Siberian  in  its 
annual  visitation,  with  "  news  of  human  kind." 

In  the  solitude  incident  to  this  rambling  life,  power 
had  been  given  him  to  keep  alive  that  devotedness  to 
nature  which  he  had  imbibed  in  his  childhood,  together 
with  the  opportunity  of  gaining  such  notices  of  persons 
and  things  from  his  intercourse  with  society,  as  qualified 
him  to  become  a  "  teacher  of  moral  wisdom."  With  this 
man,  then,  in  a  hale  old  age,  released  from  the  burthen 
of  his  occupation,  yet  retaining  much  of  its  active  habits, 
the  poet  meets,  and  is  by  him  introduced  to  a  second 
character — a  sceptic — one  who  had  been  partially  roused 
from  an  overwhelming  desolation,  brought  upon  him  by 
the  loss  of  wife  and  children,  by  the  powerful  incitement 
of  hope  which  the  French  Revolution  in  its  commence- 
ment put  forth,  but  who,  disgusted  with  the  failure  of 
all  its  promises,  had  fallen  back  into  a  laxity  of  faith  and 
conduct  which  induced  at  length  a  total  despondence  as 
to  the  dignity  and  final  destination  of  his  species.  In 
the  language  of  the  poet,  he 

broke  faith  with  those  whom  he  had  laid 
In  earth's  dark  chambers. 

Yet  he  describes  himself  as  subject  to  compunctious 
visitations  from  that  silent  quarter. 

Feebly  must  they  have  felt, 
Who,  in  old  time,  attired  with  snakes  and  whips 


212  WORDSWORTH'S  "EXCURSION." 

The  vengeful  Furies.     Beautiful  regards 
Were  turned  on  me — the  face  of  her  I  loved  ; 
The  wife  and  mother  ;  pitifully  fixing 
Tender  reproaches,  insupportable  ! — p.  133. 

The  conversations  with  this  person,  in  which  the 
Wanderer  asserts  the  consolatory  side  of  the  question 
against  the  darker  views  of  human  life  maintained  by  his 
friend,  and  finally  calls  to  his  assistance  the  experience  of 
a  village  priest,  the  third,  or  rather  fourth  interlocutor, 
(for  the  poet  himself  is  one),  form  the  groundwork  of  the 
"  Excursion." 

/  It  will  be  seen  by  this  sketch  that  the  poem  is  of  a 
didactic  nature,  and  not  a  fable  or  story;  yet  it  is  not 
wanting  in  stories  of  the  most  interesting  kind, — such 
as  the  lovers  of  Cowper  and  Goldsmith  will  recognise  as 
something  familiar  and  congenial  to  them.  We  might 
instance  the  "  Ruined  Cottage,"  and  the  Solitary's  own 
story,  in  the  first  half  of  the  work  ;  and  the  second  half, 
as  being  almost  a  continued  cluster  of  narration.  But 
the  prevailing  charm  of  the  poem  is,  perhaps,  that,  con- 
versational as  it  is  in  its  plan,  the  dialogue  throughout 
is  carried  on  in  the  very  heart  of  the  most  romantic 
scenery  which  the  poet's  native  hills  could  supply  :  and 
which,  by  the  perpetual  references  made  to  it  either  in 
the  way  of  illustration  or  for  variety  and  pleasurable 
description's  sake,  is  brought  before  us  as  we  read.  We 
breathe  in  the  fresh  air,  as  we  do  while  reading  Walton's 
"Complete  Angler ;"  only  the  country  about  us  is  as  much 
bolder  than  Walton's,  as  the  thoughts  and  speculations, 
which  form  the  matter  of  the  poem,  exceed  the  trifling 
pastime  and  low-pitched  conversation  of  his  humble 
fishermen.  We  give  the  description  of  the  "  two  huge 
peaks,"  which  from  some  other  vale  peered  into  that  in 
which  the  Solitary  is  entertaining  the  poet  and  com- 
panion. "  Those,"  says  their  host, 

if  here  you  dwelt,  would  be 

Your  prized  companions.      Many  are  the  notes 
Which  in  his  tuneful  course  the  wind  draws  forth 


WORDSWORTH'S  "EXCURSION."  213 

From  rocks,  woods,  caverns,  heaths,  and  dashing  shores  ; 

And  well  those  lolty  brethren  bear  their  part 

In  the  wild  concert :  chiefly  when  the  storm 

Rides  high  ;  then  all  the  upper  air  they  fill 

With  roaring  sound,  that  ceases  not  to  flow, 

Like  smoke,  along  the  level  of  the  blast 

In  mighty  current ;  theirs,  too,  is  the  song 

Of  stream  and  headlong  flood  that  seldom  fails  ; 

And  in  the  grim  and  breathless  hour  of  noon, 

Methinks  that  I  have  heard  them  echo  back 

The  thunder's  greeting  :  nor  have  Nature's  laws 

Left  them  ungifted  with  a  power  to  yield 

Music  of  finer  frame  ;  a  harmony, 

So  do  I  call  it,  though  it  be  the  hand 

Of  silence,  though  there  be  no  voice  ;  the  clouds, 

The  mist,  the  shadows,  light  of  golden  suns, 

Motions  of  moonlight,  all  come  thither — touch, 

And  have  an  answer — thither  come,  and  shape 

A  language  not  unwelcome  to  sick  hearts, 

And  idle  spirits  :  there  the  sun  himself 

At  the  calm  close  of  summer's  longest  day 

Rests  his  substantial  orb  ; — between  those  heights, 

And  on  the  top  of  either  pinnacle, 

More  keenly  than  elsewhere  in  night's  blue  vault, 

Sparkle  the  stars  as  of  their  station  proud. 

Thoughts  are  not  busier  in  the  mind  of  man, 

Than  the  mute  agents  stirring  there  : — alone 

Here  do  I  sit  and  watch. — p.  84. 

To  a  mind  constituted  like  that  of  Mr.  Wordsworth, 
the  stream,  the  torrent,  and  the  stirring  leaf — seem  not 
merely  to  suggest  associations  of  deity,  but  to  be  a  kind 
of  speaking  communication  with  it.  He  walks  through 
every  forest,  as  through  some  Dodona ;  and  every  bird 
that  flits  among  the  leaves,  like  that  miraculous  one1  in 
Tasso,  but  in  language  more  intelligent,  reveals  to  him 
far  higher  love -lays.  In  his  poetry  nothing  in  Nature  is 

1  With  party-coloured  plumes,  and  purple  bill, 
A  wondrous  bird  among  the  rest  there  flew, 
That  in  plain  speech  sung  love-lays  loud  and  shrill ; 
Her  leden  was  like  human  language  true  ; 
So  much  she  talk'd,  and  with  such  wit  and  skill, 
That  strange  it  seemed  how  much  good  she  knew. 

Fairfax's  Translation. 


214  WORDSWORTH'S  "EXCURSION." 

dead.  Motion  is  synonymous  with  life.  "Beside  yon 
spring,"  says  the  Wanderer,  speaking  of  a  deserted  well, 
from  which,  in  former  times,  a  poor  woman,  who  died 
heart-broken,  had  been  used  to  dispense  refreshment  to 
the  thirsty  traveller, 

beside  you  spring  I  stood, 

And  eyed  its  waters,  till  we  seem'd  to  feel 
One  sadness,  they  and  I.     For  them  a  bond 
Of  brotherhood  is  broken  :  time  has  been 
When  every  day  the  touch  of  human  hand 
Dislodged  the  natural  sleep  that  binds  them  up 
In  mortal  stillness. — p.  27. 

To  such  a  mind,  we  say — call  it  strength  or  weakness 
— if  weakness,  assuredly  a  fortunate  one — the  visible  and 
audible  things  of  creation  present,  not  dim  symbols,  or 
curious  emblems,  which  they  have  done  at  all  times  to 
those  who  have  been  gifted  with  the  poetical  faculty, 
but  revelations  and  quick  insights  into  the  life  within  us, 
the  pledge  of  immortality  : — 

the  whispering  air 

Sends  inspiration  from  her  shadowy  heights, 
And  blind  recesses  of  the  cavern'd  rocks  : 
The  little  rills,  and  waters  numberless, 
Inaudible  by  day-light. 

"  I  have  seen."  the  poet  says,  and  the  illustration  is  a 
happy  one — 

I  have  seen 

A  curious  child,  applying  to  his  ear 

The  convolutions  of  a  smooth-lipp'd  shell 

To  which,  in  silence  hush'd,  his  very  soul 

Listen'd  intensely,  and  his  countenance  soon 

Brighten'd  with  joy  ;  for  murmuriugs  from  within 

Were  heard — sonorous  cadences  !  whereby, 

To  his  belief,  the  monitor  express'd 

Mysterious  union  with  its  native  sea. 

Even  such  a  shell  the  universe  itself 

Is  to  the  ear  of  faith  ;  and  doth  impart 

Authentic  tidings  of  invisible  things  : 

Of  ebb  and  flow,  and  ever  during  power ; 

And  central  peace  subsisting  at  the  heart 

Of  endless  agitation. — p.  191. 


WORDSWORTH'S  "EXCURSION."  215 

Sometimes  this  harmony  is  imaged  to  us  by  an  echo ; 
and  in  one  instance,  it  is  with  such  transcendent  beauty 
set  forth  by  a  shadow  and  its  corresponding  substance, 
that  it  would  be  a  sin  to  cheat  our  readers  at  once  of  so 
happy  an  illustration  of  the  poet's  system,  and  so  fair  a 
proof  of  his  descriptive  powers. 

Thus  haviug  reached  a  bridge,  that  over-arch'd 

The  hasty  rivulet  where  it  lay  becalm'd 

In  a  deep  pool,  by  happy  chance  we  saw 

A  twofold  image  ;  on  a  grassy  bank 

A  snow-white  ram,  and  in  the  crystal  flocd 

Another  and  the  same  !     Most  beautiful, 

On  the  green  turf,  with  his  imperial  front, 

Shaggy  and  bold,  and  wreathed  horns  superb, 

The  breathing  creature  stood  ;  as  beautiful, 

Beneath  him,  show'd  his  shadowy  counterpart. 

Each  had  his  glowing  mountains,  each  his  sky, 

And  each  seem'd  centre  of  his  own  fair  world  : 

Antipodes  unconscious  of  each  other, 

Yet,  in  partition,  with  their  several  spheres, 

Blended  in  perfect  stillness,  to  our  sight ! — p.  407. 

Combinations,  it  is  confessed,  "  like  those  reflected  in 
that  quiet  pool,"  cannot  be  lasting :  it  is  enough  for  the 
purpose  of  the  poet,  if  they  are  felt. — They  are  at  least 
his  system ;  and  his  readers,  if  they  reject  them  for  their 
creed,  may  receive  them  merely  as  poetry.  In  him,  faith, 
in  friendly  alliance  and  conjunction  with  the  religion  of  his 
country,  appears  to  have  grown  up,  fostered  by  medita- 
tion and  lonely  communions  with  Nature — an  internal 
principle  of  lofty  consciousness,  which  stamps  upon  his 
opinions  and  sentiments  (we  were  almost  going  to  say) 
the  character  of  an  expanded  and  generous  Quakerism. 

From  such  a  creed  we  should  expect  unusual  results ; 
and,  when  applied  to  the  purposes  of  consolation,  more 
touching  considerations  than  from  the  mouth  of  common 
teachers.  The  finest  speculation  of  this  sort  perhaps  in 
the  poem  before  us,  is  the  notion  of  the  thoughts  which 
may  sustain  the  spirit,  while  they  crush  the  frame  of  the 
suiferer,  who  from  loss  of  objects  of  love  by  death,  is 
commonly  supposed  to  pine  away  under  a  broken  heart. 


216  WORDSWORTH'S  "EXCURSION." 

.     .     .     If  there  be,  whose  tender  frames  have  drooped 

Even  to  the  dust,  apparently,  through  weight 

Of  anguish  unrelieved,  and  lack  of  power 

An  agonising  spirit  to  transmute, 

Infer  not  hence  a  hope  from  those  withheld 

When  wanted  most ;  a  confidence  impaired 

So  pitiably,  that,  having  ceased  to  see 

With  bodily  eyes,  they  are  borne  down  by  love 

Of  what  is  lost,  and  perish  through  regret, 

Oh  no  !  full  oft  the  innocent  sufferer  sees 

Too  clearly  ;  feels  too  vividly  ;  and  longs 

To  realise  the  vision  with  intense 

And  over  constant  yearning  ; — there,  there  lies 

The  excess,  by  which  the  balance  is  destroyed. 

Too,  too  contracted  are  these  walls  of  flesh, 

This  vital  warmth  too  cold,  these  visual  orbs, 

Though  inconceivably  endowed,  too  dim 

For  any  passion  of  the  soul  that  leads 

To  extasy  ;  and,  all  the  crooked  paths 

Of  time  and  change  disdaining,  takes  its  course 

Along  the  line  of  limitless  desires. — p.  148. 

With  the  same  modifying  and  incorporating  power,  he 
tells  us, — 

Within  the  soul  a  faculty  abides 

That  with  interpositions,  which  would  hide 

And  darken,  so  can  deal,  that  they  become 

Contingencies  of  pomp  ;  and  serve  to  exalt 

Her  native  brightness.     As  the  ample  moon, 

In  the  deep  stillness  of  a  summer  eve, 

Rising  behind  a  thick  and  lofty  grove, 

Burns  like  an  unconsunjing  fire  of  light 

In  the  green  trees  ;  and,  kindling  on  all  sides 

Their  leafy  umbrage,  turns  the  dusky  veil 

Into  a  substance  glorious  as  her  own, 

Yea,  with  her  own  incorporate,  by  power 

Capacious  and  serene.     Like  power  abides 

In  man's  celestial  spirit ;  Virtue  thus 

Sets  forth  and  magnifies  herself ;  thus  feeds 

A  calm,  a  beautiful,  and  silent  fire, 

From  the  incumbrances  of  mortal  life, 

From  error,  disappointment,  nay,  from  guilt; 

And  sometimes,  so  relenting  justice  wills, 

From  palpable  oppressions  of  despair. — p.  188. 

This  is  high  poetry;   though  (as  we  have  ventured 


WORDSWORTH'S  "EXCURSION."  217 

to  lay  the  basis  of  the  author's  sentiments  in  a  sort  of 
liberal  Quakerism)  from  some  parts  of  it,  others  may, 
with  more  plausibility,  object  to  the  appearance  of  a  kind 
of  Natural  Methodism  :  we  could  have  wished  therefore 
that  the  tale  of  Margaret  had  been  postponed,  till  the 
reader  had  been  strengthened  by  some  previous  acquaint- 
ance with  the  author's  theory ;  and  not  placed  in  the 
front  of  the  poem,  with  a  kind  of  ominous  aspect,  beauti- 
fully tender  as  it  is.  It  is  a  tale  of  a  cottage,  and  its 
female  tenant,  gradually  decaying  together,  while  she 
expected  the  return  of  one  whom  poverty  and  not  unkind- 
ness  had  driven  from  her  arms.  We  trust  ourselves  only 
with  the  conclusion — 

.     .     .     nine  tedious  years 
From  their  first  separation,  nine  long  years, 
She  lingered  in  unquiet  widowhood, 
A  wife  and  widow.     I  have  heard,  my  friend, 
That  in  yon  arbour  oftentimes  she  sate 
Alone,  through  half  the  vacant  Sabbath  day  ; 
And,  if  a  dog  passed  by,  she  still  would  quit 
The  shade,  and  look  abroad.     On  this  old  bench 
For  hours  she  sate  ;  and  evermore  her  eye 
Was  busy  in  the  distance,  shaping  things 
That  made  her  heart  beat  quick.     You  see  that  path  ; 
There  to  and  fro  she  paced  through  many  a  day 
Of  the  warm  summer,  from  a  belt  of  hemp 
That  girt  her  waist,  spinning  the  long-drawn  thread 
With  backward  steps.     Yet  ever  as  there  pass'd 
A  man  whose  garments  showed  the  soldier's ]  red, 
The  little  child  who  sate  to  turn  the  wheel 
Ceased  from  his  task ;  and  she  with  faulteiing  voice 
Made  many  a  fond  inquiry ;  and  when  they, 
Whose  presence  gave  no  comfort,  were  gone  by, 
Her  heart  was  still  more  sad.     And  by  yon  gate, 
That  bars  the  traveller's  road,  she  often  stood, 
And,  when  a  stranger  horseman  came,  the  latch 
Would  lift,  and  in  his  face  look  wistfully  ; 
Most  happy,  if  from  aught  discovered  there 
Of  tender  feeling,  she  might  dave  repeat 
The  same  sad  question.     Meanwhile  her  poor  hut 
Sank  to  decay  :  for  he  was  gone,  whose  hand, 

1  Her  husband  had  enlisted  for  a  soldier. 


218  WORDSWORTH'S  "EXCURSION." 

At  the  first  nipping  of  October  frost, 

Closed  up  each  chink,  and  with  fresh  bands  of  straw 

Checquered  the  green  grown  thatch.     And  so  she  lived 

Through  the  long  winter,  reckless  and  alone  ; 

Until  her  house  by  frost,  and  thaw,  and  rain 

Was  sapped  ;  and,  while  she  slept,  the  nightly  damps 

Did  chill  her  breast ;  and  in  the  stormy  day 

Her  tattered  clothes  were  ruffled  by  the  wind, 

Even  at  the  side  of  her  own  fire.     Yet  still 

She  loved  this  wretched  spot,  nor  would  for  worlds 

Have  parted  hence  :  and  still  that  length  of  road, 

And  this  rude  bench,  one  torturing  hope  endeared, 

Fast  rooted  at  her  heart :  and  here,  my  friend, 

In  sickness  she  remained  ;  and  here  she  died, 

Last  human  tenant  of  these  ruined  walls  ! — p.  46. 

The  fourth  book,  entitled  "Despondency  Corrected," 
we  consider  as  the  most  valuable  portion  of  the  poem. 
For  moral  grandeur;  for  wide  scope  of  thought  and  a 
long  train  of  lofty  imagery ;  for  tender  personal  appeals ; 
and  a  versification  which  we  feel  we  ought  to  notice,  but 
feel  it  also  so  involved  in  the  poetry,  that  we  can  hardly 
mention  it  as  a  distinct  excellence ;  it  stands  without 
competition  among  our  didactic  and  descriptive  verse. 
The  general  tendency  of  the  argument  (which  we  might 
almost  affirm  to  be  the  leading  moral  of  the  poem)  is  to 
abate  the  pride  of  the  calculating  understanding,  and  to 
reinstate  the  imagination  and  the  affections  in  those  seats 
from  which  modern  philosophy  has  laboiired  but  too 
successfully  to  expel  them. 

"  Life's  autumn  past,"  says  the  gray-haired  Wanderer, 

.     .     .     I  stand  on  winter's  verge, 

And  daily  lose  what  I  desire  to  keep  ; 

Yet  rather  would  I  instantly  decline 

To  the  traditionary  sympathies 

Of  a  most  rustic  ignorance,  and  take 

A  fearful  apprehension  from  the  owl 

Or  death-watch — and  as  readily  rejoice 

If  two  auspicious  magpies  crossed  my  way— - 

This  rather  would  I  do  than  see  and  hear 

The  repetitions  wearisome  of  sense, 

Where  soul  is  dead  and  feeling  hath  no  place. — p.  1G8. 


WORDSWORTH'S  "EXCURSION."  219 

In  the  same  spirit,  those  illusions  of  the  imaginative 
faculty  to  which  the  peasantry  in  solitary  districts  are 
peculiarly  subject,  are  represented  as  the  kindly  ministers 
of  conscience  : 

.     .     .     with  whose  service  charged 
They  come  and  go,  appear  and  disappear ; 
Diverting  evil  purposes,  remorse 
Awakening,  chastening  an  intemperate  grief, 
Or  pride  of  heart  abating. 

Reverting  to  more  distant  ages  of  the  world,  the 
operation  of  that  same  faculty  in  producing  the  several 
fictions  of  Chaldean,  Persian,  and  Grecian  idolatry,  is 
described  with  such  seductive  power,  that  the  Solitary, 
in  good  earnest,  seems  alarmed,  at  the  tendency  of  his  own 
argument.  Notwithstanding  his  fears,  however,  there  is 
one  thought  so  uncommonly  fine,  relative  to  the  spiritu- 
ality which  lay  hid  beneath  the  gross  material  forms  of 
Greek  worship,  in  metal  or  stone,  that  we  cannot  resist 
the  allurement  of  transcribing  it — 

.     .     .     Triumphant  o'er  his  pompous  show 
Of  art,  this  palpable  array  of  sense, 
On  every  side  encountered  ;  in  despite 
Of  the  gross  fictions  chanted  in  the  streets 
By  wandering  rhapsodists  ;  and  in  contempt 
Of  doubt  and  bold  denials  hourly  urged 
Amid  the  wrangling  schools — a  SPIRIT  hung, 
Beautiful  Region  !  o'er  thy  towns  and  farms, 
Statues  and  temples,  and  memorial  tombs  ; 
And  emanations  were  perceived  ;  and  acts 
Of  immortality,  in  Nature's  course, 
Exemplified  by  mysteries,  that  were  felt 
As  bonds,  on  grave  Philosopher  imposed 
And  armed  Warrior  ;  and  in  every  grove 
A  gay  or  pensive  tenderness  prevailed, 
When  piety  more  awful  had  relaxed. 

' '  Take,  running  river,  take  these  locks  of  mine  " — 
Thus  would  the  votary  say — "  this  severed  hair, 
My  vow  fulfilling,  do  I  here  present, 
Thankful  for  my  beloved  child's  return. 
Thy  banks,  CepMsus,  he  again  hath  trod, 
Thy  murmurs  heard,  and  drunk  the  crystal  lymph 
With  which  thou  dost  refresh  the  thirsty  lip, 


220  WORDSWORTHS  "EXCURSION. 

And  moisten  all  day  long  these  flowery  fields." 

And  doubtless,  sometimes,  when  the  hair  was  shed 

Upon  the  flowing  stream,  a  thought  arose 

Of  Life  continuous,  Being  unimpaired  ; 

That  hath  been,  is,  and  where  it  was  and  is 

There  shall  be  ;  seen,  and  heard,  and  felt,  and  known, 

And  recognised — existence  unexposed 

To  the  blind  walk  of  mortal  accident ; 

From  diminution  safe  and  weakening  age  ; 

While  man  grows  old,  and  dwindles  and  decays  ; 

And  countless  generations  of  mankind 

Depart,  and  leave  no  vestige  where  they  trod. — p.  174. 

In  discourse  like  this  the  first  day  passes  away.  The 
second  (for  this  almost  dramatic  poem  takes  up  the 
action  of  two  summer  days)  is  varied  by  the  introduction 
of  the  village  priest ;  to  whom  the  Wanderer  resigns  the 
office  of  chief  speaker,  which  had  been  yielded  to  his  age 
and  experience  on  the  first.  The  conference  is  begun 
at  the  gate  of  the  churchyard ;  and  after  some  natural 
speculations  concerning  de  ith  and  immortality — and  the 
custom  of  funereal  and  sepulchral  observances,  as  deduced 
from  a  feeling  of  immortality — certain  doubts  are  pro- 
posed respecting  the  quantity  of  moral  worth  existing  in 
the  world,  and  in  that  mountainous  district  in  particular. 
In  the  resolution  of  these  doubts,  the  priest  enters  upon 
a  most  affecting  and  singular  strain  of  narration,  derived 
from  the  graves  around  him.  Pointing  to  hillock  after 
hillock,  he  gives  short  histories  of  their  tenants,  disclos- 
ing their  humble  virtues,  and  touching  with  tender  hand 
upon  their  frailties. 

Nothing  can  be  conceived  finer  than  the  manner  of 
introducing  these  tales.  With  heaven  above  his  head, 
and  the  mouldering  turf  at  his  feet — standing  betwixt 
life  and  death — he  seems  to  maintain  that  spiritual 
relation  which  he  bore  to  his  living  flock  in  its  undimiu- 
ished  strength,  even  with  their  ashes ;  and  to  be  in  his 
proper  cure,  or  diocese,  among  the  dead. 

We  might  extract  powerful  instances  of  pathos  from 
these  tales — the  story  of  Ellen  in  particular — but  their 
force  is  in  combination,  and  in  the  circumstances  under 


WORDSWORTH'S  "EXCURSION."  221 

which  they  are  introduced.  The  traditionary  anecdote 
of  the  Jacobite  and  Hanoverian,  as  less  liable  to  suffer 
by  transplanting,  and  as  affording  an  instance  of  that 
finer  species  of  humour,  that  thoughtful  playfulness  in 
which  the  author  more  nearly  perhaps  than  in  any  other 
quality  resembles  Cowper,  we  shall  lay  (at  least  a  part  of 
it)  before  our  readers.  It  is  the  story  of  a  whig  who, 
having  wasted  a  large  estate  in  election  contests,  retired 
"  beneath  a  borrowed  name i:  to  a  small  town  among 
these  northern  mountains,  where  a  Caledonian  laird,  a 
follower  of  the  house  of  Stuart,  who  had  fled  his  country 
after  the  overthrow  at  Culloden,  returning  with  the 
return  of  lenient  times,  had  also  fixed  his  residence. 

Here,  then,  they  met, 

Two  doughty  champions  ;  flaming  Jacobite, 
And  sullen  Hanoverian  !  you  might  think 
That  losses  and  vexations,  less  severe 
Than  those  which  they  had  severally  sustained, 
Would  have  inclined  each  to  abate  his  zeal 
For  his  ungrateful  cause  ;  no, — I  have  heard 
My  reverend  father  tell  that,  mid  the  calm 
Of  that  small  town  encountering  thus,  they  filled 
Daily  its  bowling-green  with  harmless  strife, 
Plagued  with  uncharitable  thoughts  the  church, 
And  vex'd  the  market-place  !     But  in  the  breasts 
Of  these  opponents  gradually  was  wrought, 
With  little  change  of  general  sentiment, 
Such  change  towards  each  other,  that  their  days 
By  choice  were  spent  in  constant  fellowship  ; 
And,  if  at  times  they  fretted  with  the  yoke, 
Those  very  bickerings  made  them  love  it  more. 

A  favourite  boundary  to  their  lengthened  walks 
This  churchyard  was.     And,  whether  they  had  come 
Treading  their  path  in  sympathy,  and  linked 
In  social  converse,  or  by  some  short  space 
Discreetly  parted  to  preserve  the  peace, 
One  spirit  seldom  failed  to  extend  its  sway 
Over  both  minds,  when  they  awhile  had  marked 
The  visible  quiet  of  this  holy  ground 
And  breathed  its  soothing  air 

There  live  who  yet  remember  to  have  seen 
Their  courtly  figures — seated  on  a  stump 
Of  an  old  yew,  their  favourite  resting  place. 


222  WORDSWORTH'S  "EXCURSION." 

But,  as  the  remnant  of  the  long-lived  tree 

Was  disappearing  by  a  swift  decay, 

They  with  joint  care  determined  to  erect, 

Upon  its  site,  a  dial,  which  should  stand 

For  public  use  ;  and  also  might  survive 

As  their  own  private  monument ;  for  this 

Was  the  particular  spot,  in  which  they  wished 

(And  heaven  was  pleased  to  accomplish  their  desire) 

That,  undivided,  their  remains  should  lie. 

So,  where  the  mouldered  tree  had  stood,  was  raised 

Yon  structure,  framing,  with  the  ascent  of  steps 

That  to  the  decorated  pillar  lead, 

A  work  of  art,  more  sumptuous,  as  might  seem, 

Than  suits  this  place  ;  yet  built  in  no  proud  scorn 

Of  rustic  homeliness  ;  they  only  aimed 

To  ensure  for  it  respectful  guardianship. 

Around  the  margin  of  the  plate,  whereon 

The  shadow  falls,  to  note  the  stealthy  hours, 

Winds  an  inscriptive  legend 

At  these  words 

Thither  we  turned ;  and  gathered,  as  we  read, 
The  appropriate  sense,  in  Latin  numbers  couched. 
"  Time  Hies  ;  it  is  his  melancholy  task 
To  bring,  and  bear  away,  delusive  hopes, 
And  reproduce  the  troubles  he  destroys. 
But,  while  his  business  thus  is  occupied, 
Discerning  mortal !  do  thou  serve  the  will 
Of  Time's  eternal  Master,  and  that  peace, 
Which  the  world  wants,  shall  be  for  thee  confirmed." — 
pp.  270-273. 

The  causes  which  have  prevented  the  poetry  of  Mr. 
Wordsworth  from  attaining  its  full  share  of  popularity 
are  to  be  found  in  the  boldness  and  originality  of  his 
genius.  The  times  are  past  when  a  poet  could  securely 
follow  the  direction  of  his  own  mind  into  whatever  tracts 
it  might  lead.  A  writer,  who  would  be  popular,  must 
timidly  coast  the  shore  of  prescribed  sentiment  and 
sympathy.  He  must  have  just  as  much  more  of  the 
imaginative  faculty  than  his  readers  as  will  serve  to 
keep  their  apprehensions  from  stagnating,  but  not  so 
much  as  to  alarm  their  jealousy.  He  must  not  think  or 
feel  too  deeply. 

If  he  has  had  the  fortune  to  be  bred  in  the  midst  of 


WORDSWORTH'S  "EXCURSION."  223 

the  most  magnificent  objects  of  creation,  he  must  not 
have  given  away  his  heart  to  them ;  or  if  he  have,  he 
must  conceal  his  love,  or  not  carry  his  expressions  of  it 
beyond  that  point  of  rapture  which  the  occasional  tourist 
thinks  it  not  overstepping  decorum  to  betray,  or  the  limit 
which  that  gentlemanly  spy  upon  Nature,  the  picturesque 
traveller,  has  vouchsafed  to  countenance.  He  must  do 
this,  or  be  content  to  be  thought  an  enthusiast. 

If  from  living  among  simple  mountaineers,  from  a 
daily  intercourse  with  them,  not  upon  the  footing  of  a 
patron,  but  in  the  character  of  an  equal,  he  has  detected, 
or  imagines  that  he  has  detected,  through  the  cloudy 
medium  of  their  unlettered  discourse,  thoughts  and  appre- 
hensions not  vulgar ;  traits  of  patience  and  constancy, 
love  unwearied,  and  heroic  endurance,  not  unfit  (as  he 
may  judge)  to  be  made  the  subject  of  verse,  he  will  be 
deemed  a  man  of  perverted  genius  by  the  philanthropist 
who,  conceiving  of  the  peasantry  of  his  country  only  as 
objects  of  a  pecuniary  sympathy,  starts  at  finding  them 
elevated  to  a  level  of  humanity  with  himself,  having  their 
own  loves,  enmities,  cravings,  aspirations,  etc.,  as  much 
beyond  his  faculty  to  believe,  as  his  beneficence  to 
supply. 

If  from  a  familiar  observation  of  the  ways  of  children, 
and  much  more  from  a  retrospect  of  his  own  mind  when 
a  child,  he  has  gathered  more  reverential  notions  of  that 
state  than  fall  to  the  lot  of  ordinary  observers,  and, 
escaping  from  the  dissonant  wranglings  of  men,  has 
tuned  his  lyre,  though  but  for  occasional  harmonies,  to 
the  milder  utterance  of  that  soft  age, — his  verses  shall 
be  censured  as  infantile  by  critics  who  confound  poetry 
"having  children  for  its  subject"  with  poetry  that  is 
"childish,"  and  who,  having  themselves  perhaps  never 
been  children,  never  having  possessed  the  tenderness 
and  docility  of  that  age,  know  not  what  the  soul  of  a 
child  is — how  apprehensive!  how  imaginative!  how 
religious  ! 

We  have  touched  upon  some  of  the  causes  which  we 


224  WORDSWORTH'S  "EXCURSION." 

conceive  to  have  been  unfriendly  to  the  author's  former 
poems.  We  think  they  do  not  apply  in  the  same  force 
to  the  one  before  us.  There  is  in  it  more  of  uniform 
elevation,  a  wider  scope  of  subject,  less  of  manner,  and  it 
contains  none  of  those  starts  and  imperfect  shapings 
which  in  some  of  this  author's  smaller  pieces  offended  the 
weak,  and  gave  scandal  to  the  perverse.  It  must  indeed 
be  approached  with  seriousness.  It  has  in  it  much  of  that 
quality  which  "  draws  the  devout,  deterring  the  profane." 
Those  who  hate  the  "  Paradise  Lost "  will  not  love  this 
poem.  The  steps  of  the  great  master  are  discernible  in 
it;  not  in  direct  imitation  or  injurious  parody,  but  in 
the  following  of  the  spirit,  in  free  homage  and  generous 
subjection. 

One  objection  it  is  impossible  not  to  foresee.  It  will  be 
asked,  why  put  such  eloquent  discourse  in  the  mouth  of 
a  pedlar  ?  It  might  be  answered  that  Mr.  Wordsworth's 
plan  required  a  character  in  humble  life  to  be  the  organ 
of  his  philosophy.  It  was  in  harmony  with  the  system 
and  scenery  of  bis  poem.  We  read  "  Piers  Plowman's 
Creed,"  and  the  lowuess  of  the  teacher  seems  to  add  a 
simple  dignity  to  the  doctrine.  Besides,  the  poet  has 
bestowed  an  unusual  share  of  education  upon  him.  Is 
it  too  much  to  suppose  that  the  author,  at  some  early 
period  of  his  life,  may  himself  have  known  such  a  person, 
a  man  endowed  with  sentiments  above  his  situation, 
another  Burns ;  and  that  the  dignified  strains  which  he 
has  attributed  to  the  Wanderer  may  be  no  more  than 
recollections  of  his  conversation,  heightened  only  by  the 
amplification  natural  to  poetry,  or  the  lustre  which 
imagination  flings  back  upon  the  objects  and  companions 
of  our  youth  1  After  all,  if  there  should  be  found  readers 
willing  to  admire  the  poem,  who  yet  feel  scandalised  at 
a  name,  we  would  advise  them,  wherever  it  occurs,  to 
substitute  silently  the  word  Palmer,  or  Pilgrim,  or  any 
less  offensive  designation,  which  shall  connect  the  notion 
of  sobriety  in  heart  and  manners  with  the  experience  and 
privileges  which  a  wayfaring  life  confers. 


THEATRICAL  NOTICES. 


RICHARD  BROME'S  JOVIAL  CREW. 

THE  Jovial  Crew,  or  the  Merry  Beggars,  has  been 
revived  here  [at  the  English  Opera]  after  an  interval,  as 
the  bills  tell  us,  of  seven  years.  Can  it  be  so  long  (it 
seems  but  yesterday)  since  we  saw  poor  Lovegrove  in 
Justice  Clack  1  His  childish  treble  still  pipes  in  our 
ears;  "Whip  'em,  whip  'em,  whip  'em."  Dowton  was 
the  representative  of  the  Justice  the  other  night,  and 
shook  our  ribs  most  incontinently.  He  was  in  "  excel- 
lent foolery,"  and  our  lungs  crowed  chanticleer.  Yet  it 
appears  to  us  that  there  was  a  still  higher  strain  of 
fatuity  in  his  predecessor — that  his  eyes  distilled  a  richer 
dotage.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  an  error  of  the  memory. 
Defunct  merit  comes  out  upon  us  strangely. 

Easy  natural  Wrench  was  the  Springlove ;  too  com- 
fortable a  personage  perhaps  to  personify  Springlove,  in 
whom  the  voice  of  the  bird  awakens  a  restless  instinct  of 
roaming  that  had  slept  during  the  winter.  Miss  Steven- 
son certainly  leaves  us  nothing  to  regret  for  the  absence 
of  the  lady,  however  agreeable,  who  formerly  performed 
the  part  of  Meriel.  Miss  Stevenson  is  a  fine  open-coun- 
tenanced lass,  with  glorious  girlish  manners.  But  the 
Princess  of  Mumpers,  and  Lady  Paramount  of  beggarly 
counterfeit  accents,  was  she  that  played  Rachel.  Her 
gabbling  lachrymose  petitions ;  her  tones,  such  as  we 
have  heard  by  the  side  of  old  woods,  when  an  irresistible 
face  has  come  peeping  on  one  on  a  sudden ;  with  her  full 
Q 


226  THEATRICAL  NOTICES. 

black  locks,  and  a  voice — how  shall  we  describe  it? — a 
voice  that  was  by  nature  meant  to  convey  nothing  but 
truth  and  goodness,  but  warped  by  circumstance  into  an 
assurance  that  she  is  telling  us  a  lie — that  catching 
twitch  of  the  thievish  irreprovable  finger — those  ballad- 
singers'  notes,  so  vulgar,  yet  so  unvulgar — that  assurance 
so  like  impudence  and  yet  so  many  countless  leagues 
removed  from  it — her  jeers,  which  we  had  rather  stand, 
than  be  caressed  with  other  ladies'  compliments,  a 
summer's  day  long — her  face  with  a  wild  out-of-doors 
grace  upon  it — 

Altogether,  a  brace  of  more  romantic  she-beggars  it 
was  never  our  fortune  to  meet  in  this  supplicatory  world. 
The  youngest  might  have  sat  for  "  pretty  Bessy,"  whose 
father  was  an  Earl,  and  whose  legend  still  adorns  the 
front  of  mine  hostess's  doors  at  Bethnal  Green  ;  and  the 
other  could  be  no  less  than  the  "  Beggar  Maid  "  whom 
"King  Cophetua  wooed."  "What  a  lass  that  were," 
said  a  stranger  who  sate  beside  us,  speaking  of  Miss 
Kelly  in  Rachel,  "to  go  a-gypsying  through  the  world 
with."  We  confess  we  longed  to  drop  a  tester  in  her 
lap,  she  begged  so  masterly. 

By-the-way,  this  is  the  true  Beggar's  Opera.  The 
other  should  have  been  called  the  Mirror  for  Highway- 
men. We  wonder  the  Societies  for  the  Suppression  of 
Mendicity  (and  other  good  things)  do  not  club  for  the 
putting  down  of  this  infamous  protest  in  favour  of  air, 
and  clear  liberty,  and  honest  license,  and  blameless  asser- 
tion of  man's  original  blest  charter  of  blue  skies,  and 
vagrancy,  and  nothing-to-do. 

July  4,  1819. 

ISAAC  BICKERSTAFF'S  HYPOCRITE. 

BY  one  of  those  perversions  which  actuate  poor  mortals 
in  the  place  of  motives  (to  persuade  us  into  the  notion 
that  we  are  free  agents,  we  presume),  we  had  never  till 


THEATRICAL  NOTICES.  227 

the  other  evening  seen  Dowton  [at  the  English  Opera] 
in  Dr.  Cantwell.  By  a  pious  fraud  of  Mr.  Arnold's,  who 
by  a  process  as  simple  as  some  of  those  by  which  Mathews 
metamorphoses  his  person,  has  converted  the  play  into 
an  opera, — a  conversion,  by-the-way,  for  which  we  are 
deeply  indebted  to  him, — we  have  been  favoured  with 
this  rich  novelty  at  our  favourite  theatre.  It  seems  a 
little  unreasonable  to  come  lagging  in  with  a  posthumous 
testimony  to  the  merits  of  a  performance  of  which  the 
town  has  long  rung,  but  we  cannot  help  remarking  in 
Mr.  Dowton's  acting,  the  subtle  gradations  of  the  hypo- 
crisy ;  the  length  to  which  it  runs  in  proportion  as  the 
recipient  is  capable  of  taking  it  in;  the  gross  palpable 
way  in  which  he  administers  the  dose  in  wholesale  to  old 
Lady  Lambert,  that  rich  fanatic ;  the  somewhat  more 
guarded  manner  in  which  he  retails  it  out,  only  so  much 
a  time  as  he  can  bear,  to  the  somewhat  less  bitten  fool 
her  son ;  and  the  almost  absence  of  it  before  the  younger 
members  of  the  family,  when  nobody  else  is  by;  how 
the  cloven  foot  peeps  out  a  little  and  a  little  more,  till 
the  diabolical  nature  is  stung  out  at  last  into  full  mani- 
festation of  its  horrid  self.  What  a  grand  insolence  in 
the  tone  which  he  assumes,  when  he  commands  Sir  John 
to  quit  his  house ;  and  then  the  tortures  and  agonies 
when  he  is  finally  baffled  !  It  is  in  these  last  perhaps 
that  he  is  greatest,  and  we  should  be  doing  injustice  not 
to  compare  this  part  of  the  performance  with,  and  in  some 
respects  to  give  it  the  preference  above,  the  acting  of  Mr. 
Kean,  in  a  situation  nearly  analogous,  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  City  Madam.  Cantwell  reveals  his  pangs  with 
quite  as  much  force,  and  without  the  assistance  of  those 
contortions  which  transform  the  detected  Luke  into  the 
similitude  of  a  mad  tiger,  or  a  foaming  demon.  Dowton 
plays  it  neither  like  beast  nor  demon,  but  simply  as  it 
should  be,  a  bold  bad  man  pushed  to  extremity.  Humanity 
is  never  once  overstepped.  Has  it  ever  been  noticed,  the 
exquisite  modulation  with  which  he  drawls  out  the  word 
"Charles,"  when  he  calls  his  secretary,  so  humble,  so 


228  THEATRICAL  NOTICES. 

seraphic,  so  resigned.  The  most  diabolical  of  her  sex 
that  we  ever  knew  accented  her  honey  devil  words  in 
Jost  such  a  hymn-like  smoothness.  The  spirit  of  Whit- 
field  seems  hovering  in  the  air,  to  suck  the  blessed  tones 
so  much  like  his  own  upon  earth  :  Lady  Huntingdon 
claps  her  neat  white  wings,  and  gives  it  out  again  in 
heaven  to  the  sainted  ones,  in  approbation. 

Miss  Kelly  is  not  quite  at  home  in  Charlotte ;  she  is 
too  good  for  such  parts.  Her  cue  is  to  be  natural ;  she 
cannot  put  on  the  modes  of  artificial  life,  and  play  the 
coquette  as  it  is  expected  to  be  played.  There  is  a 
frankness  in  her  tones  which  defeats  her  purposes  ;  we 
could  not  help  wondering  why  her  lover  (Mr.  Pearman) 
looked  so  rueful ;  we  forgot  that  she  was  acting  airs  and 
graces,  as  she  seemed  to  forget  it  herself,  turning  them 
into  a  playfulness  which  could  breed  no  doubt  for  a 
moment  which  way  her  inclinations  ran.  She  is  in  truth 
not  framed  to  tease  or  torment  even  in  jest,  but  to  utter 
a  hearty  Yes  or  No ;  to  yield  or  refuse  assent  with  a 
noble  sincerity.  We  have  not  the  pleasure  of  being 
acquainted  with  her,  but  we  have  been  told  that  she 
carries  the  same  cordial  manners  into  private  life.  We 
have  heard,  too,  of  some  virtues  which  she  is  in  the 
practice  of;  but  they  are  of  a  description  which  repay 
themselves,  and  with  them  neither  we  nor  the  public  have 
anything  to  do. 

One  word  about  Wrench  who  played  the  Colonel : — 
Was  this  man  never  unhappy  ?  It  seems  as  if  care  never 
came  near  him,  as  if  the  black  ox  could  never  tread  upon 
his  foot ;  we  want  something  calamitous  to  befall  him, 
to  bring  him  down  to  us.  It  is  a  shame  he  should  be 
suffered  to  go  about  with  his  well-looking  happy  face  and 
tones  insulting  us  thin  race  of  irritable  and  irritable- 
making  critics. 

August  2,  1819. 


THEATRICAL  NOTICES.  229 


NEW  PIECES  AT  THE  LYCEUM. 

A  PLOT  has  broke  out  at  this  theatre.  Some  quarrel  has 
been  breeding  between  the  male  and  female  performers, 
and  the  women  have  determined  to  set  up  for  themselves. 
Seven  of  them,  Belles  without  Beaux  they  call  themselves, 
have  undertaken  to  get  up  a  piece  without  any  assistance 
from  the  men,  and  in  our  opinion  have  established  their 
point  most  successfully.  There  is  Miss  Carew  with  her 
silvery  tones,  and  Miss  Stevenson  with  her  delicious 
mixture  of  the  school-girl  and  the  waiting-maid,  and  Miss 
Kelly,  sure  to  be  first  in  any  mischief,  and  Mrs.  Chatterly, 
with  some  of  the  best  acting  we  have  ever  witnessed,  and 
Miss  Love,  worthy  of  the  name,  and  Mrs.  Grove  that 
rhymes  to  her,  and  Mrs.  Richardson  who  might  in  charity 
have  been  allowed  somewhat  a  larger  portion  of  the 
dialogue.  The  effect  was  enchanting.  We  mean  for  once. 
We  do  not  want  to  encourage  these  Amazonian  vanities. 
Once  or  twice  we  longed  to  have  Wrench  bustling  among 
them.  A  lady  who  sate  near  us  was  observed  to  gape 
for  want  of  variety.  To  us  it  was  delicate  quintessence, 
an  apple-pie  made  all  of  quinces.  We  remember  poor 
Holcroft's  last  comedy,  which  positively  died  from  the 
opposite  excess ;  it  was  choked  up  with  men,  and  perished 
from  a  redundancy  of  male  population.  It  had  nine 
principal  men  characters  in  it,  and  but  one  woman,  and 
she  of  no  very  ambiguous  character.  Mrs.  Harlow,  to 
do  the  part  justice,  chose  to  play  it  in  scarlet. 

We  did  not  know  Mrs.  Chatterly's  merits  before ;  she 
plays,  with  downright  sterling  good  acting,  a  prude  who 
is  to  be  convinced  out  of  her  prudery  by  Miss  Kelly's  (we 
did  not  catch  her  stage  name)  assumption  of  the  dress  and 
character  of  a  brother  of  seventeen,  who  makes  the 
prettiest  unalarming  platonic  approaches;  and  in  the 
shyest  mark  of  moral  battery,  no  one  step  of  which  you 
can  detect,  or  say  this  is  decidedly  going  too  far,  vanquishes 
at  last  the  ice  of  her  scruples,  brings  her  into  an  infinite 


230  THEATRICAL  NOTICES. 

scrape,  arid  then  with  her  own  infinite  good  humour  set3 
all  to  right,  and  brings  her  safe  out  of  it  again  with 
asi  explanation.  Mrs.  Chatterly's  embarrassments  were 
masterly.  Miss  Stevenson,  her  maid's,  start  at  surprising 
a  youth  in  her  mistress's  closet  at  midnight,  was  quite  as 
good.  Miss  Kelly  we  do  not  care  to  say  anything  about, 
because  we  have  been  accused  of  flattering  her.  The 
truth  is,  this  lady  puts  so  much  intelligence  and  good 
sense  into  every  part  which  she  plays,  that  there  is  no 
expressing  an  honest  sense  of  her  merits,  without  incurring 
a  suspicion  of  that  sort.  But  what  have  we  to  gain  by 
praising  Miss  Kelly  1 

Altogether,  this  little  feminine  republic,  this  provoking 
experiment,  went  off  most  smoothly.  What  a  nice  world 
it  would  be,  we  sometimes  think,  all  women  !  but  then 
we  are  afraid,  we  slip  in  a  fallacy  unawares  into  the  hypo- 
thesis ;  we  somehow  edge  in  the  idea  of  ourselves  as 
spectators  or  something  among  them. 

We  saw  Wilkinson  after  it  in  Walk  for  a  Wager. 
What  a  picture  of  forlorn  hope  !  of  abject  orphan  destitu- 
tion !  he  seems  to  have  no  friends  in  the  world  but  his 
legs,  and  he  plies  them  accordingly.  He  goes  walking 
on  like  a  perpetual  motion.  His  continual  ambulatory 
presence  performs  the  part  of  a  Greek  chorus.  He  is  the 
walking  gentleman  of  the  piece  ;  a  peripatetic  that  would 
make  a  stoic  laugh.  He  made  us  cry.  His  Muffincap 
in  Amateurs  and  Actors  is  just  such  another  piece  of 
acting.  We  have  seen  charity  boys,  both  of  St.  Clement's 
and  Farringdon  Without,  looking  just  as  old,  ground 
down  out  of  all  semblance  of  youth,  by  abject  and  hope- 
less neglect — you  cannot  guess  their  age  between  fifteen 
and  fifty.  If  Mr.  Peake  is  the  author  of  these  pieces  he 
has  no  reason  to  be  piqued  at  their  reception. 

We  must  apologise  for  an  oversight  in  our  last  week's 
article.  The  allusion  made  to  Mr.  Kean's  acting  of  Luke 
in  the  City  Madam  was  totally  inapplicable  to  the  part 
and  to  the  play.  We  were  thinking  of  his  performance 
of  the  concluding  scenes  of  The  New  Way  to  Pay  Old 


THEATRICAL  NOTICES.  231 

Debts.  We  confounded  one  of  Massinger's  strange  heroes 
with  the  other.  It  was  Sir  Giles  Oven-each  we  meant ; 
nor  are  we  sure  that  our  remark  was  just,  even  with  this 
explanation.  When  we  consider  the  intense  tone  in  which 
Mr.  Kean  thinks  it  proper  (and  he  is  quite  as  likely  to 
be  in  the  right  as  his  blundering  critic)  to  pitch  the 
temperament  of  that  monstrous  character  from  the 
beginning,  it  follows  but  logically  and  naturally  that 
where  the  wild  uncontrollable  man  comes  to  be  baffled 
of  his  purpose,  his  passion  should  assume  a  frenzied 
manner,  which  it  was  altogether  absurd  to  expect  should 
be  the  same  with  the  manner  of  the  cautious  and  self- 
restraining  Cantwell,  even  when  he  breaks  loose  from  all 
bonds  in  the  agony  of  his  final  exposure.  We  never  felt 
more  strongly  the  good  sense  of  the  saying — comparisons 
are  odious.  They  betray  us  not  seldom  into  bitter  errors 
of  judgment ;  and  sometimes,  as  in  the  present  instance, 
into  absolute  matter-of-fact  blunders.  But  we  have 
recanted. 

August  1819. 

MISS  KELLY  AT  BATH. 

DEAR  G , — I  was  thinking  yesterday  of  our  old 

play -going  days,  of  your  and  my  partiality  to  Mrs. 
Jordan,  of  our  disputes  as  to  the  relative  merits  of  Dodd 
and  Parsons,  and  whether  Smith  or  Jack  Palmer  were 
the  most  of  a  gentleman.  The  occasion  of  my  falling 
into  this  train  of  thinking,  was  my  learning  from  the 
newspapers  that  Miss  Kelly  is  paying  the  Bath  Theatre 
a  visit  (your  own  theatre,  I  am  sorry  to  find,  is  shut  up, 
either  from  parsimonious  feeling.*,  or  through  the  influence 

of  principles).1      This   lady   has   long   ranked 

among  the  most  considerable  of  our  London  performers. 
If  there  are  one  or  two  of  greater  name,  I  must  impute 

1  The  word  here  omitted  by  the  Bristol  Editor,  we  suppose,  is 
Methodistical. 


232  THEATRICAL  NOTICES. 

it  to  the  circumstance  that  she  has  never  burst  upon  the 
town  at  once  in  the  maturity  of  her  powers,  which  is  a 
great  advantage  to  debutantes  who  have  passed  their 
probationary  years  in  Provincial  Theatres.  We  do  not 
hear  them  timing  their  instruments.  But  she  has  been 
winning  her  patient  way  from  the  humblest  degradations 
to  the  eminence  which  she  has  now  attained,  on  the  self- 
same boards  which  supported  her  first  in  the  slender 
pretensions  of  chorus  singer.  I  very  much  wish  you 
would  go  and  see  her.  You  will  not  see  Mrs.  Jordan, 
but  something  else ;  something  on  the  whole  very  little, 
if  at  all,  inferior  to  that  lady  in  her  best  days.  I  cannot 
hope  that  you  will  think  so,  I  do  not  even  wish  that  you 
should.  Our  longest  remembrances  are  the  most  sacred, 
and  I  shall  revere  the  prejudice  that  shall  prevent  you 
from  thinking  quite  so  favourably  of  her  as  I  do.  I  do 
not  well  know  how  to  draw  a  parallel  between  their 
distinct  manners  of  acting.  I  seem  to  recognise  the 
same  pleasantness  and  nature  in  both.  But  Mrs.  Jordan's 
was  the  carelessness  of  a  child ;  her  childlike  spirit  shook 
off  the  load  of  years  from  her  spectators ;  she  seemed  one 
whom  care  could  not  come  near ;  a  privileged  being  sent 
to  teach  mankind  what  he  most  wants — joyousness. 
Hence,  if  we  had  more  unmixed  pleasure  from  her  per- 
formances, we  had  perhaps  less  sympathy  with  them  than 
with  those  of  her  successor.  This  latter  lady's  is  the  joy 
of  a  freed  spirit  escaping  from  care,  as  a  bird  that  had 
been  limed ;  her  smiles,  if  I  may  use  the  expression, 
seemed  saved  out  of  the  fire,  relics  which  a  good  spirit 
had  snatched  up  as  most  portable ;  her  discontents  are 
visitors  and  not  inmates  :  she  can  lay  them  by  altogether, 
and  when  she  does  so,  I  am  not  sure  that  she  is  not 
greatest.  She  is  in  truth  no  ordinary  tragedian.  Her 
Yarico  is  the  most  intense  piece  of  acting  which  I  ever 
witnessed,  the  most  heart-rending  spectacle.  To  see  her 
leaning  upon  that  wretched  reed,  her  lover — the  very 
exhibition  of  whose  character  would  be  a  moral  offence, 
but  for  her  clinging  and  noble  credulity — to  see  her  lean 


THEATRICAL  NOTICES.  233 

upon  that  flint,  and  by  the  strong  workings  of  passion, 
imagine  it  a  god,  is  one  of  the  most  afflicting  lessons  of 
the  yearnings  of  the  human  heart,  and  its  mistakes,  that 
was  ever  read  upon  a  stage.  The  whole  performance  is 
everywhere  African,  fervid,  glowing.  Nor  is  this  anything 
more  than  the  wonderful  force  of  imagination  in  this  per- 
former ;  for  turn  but  the  scene,  and  you  shall  have  her 
come  forward  in  some  kindly  home-drawn  character  of  an 
English  rustic,  a  Phoebe,  or  a  Dinah  Cropley  where  you 
would  swear  that  her  thoughts  had  never  strayed  beyond 
the  precincts  of  the  dairy  or  the  farm,  or  her  mind  known 
less  tranquil  passions  than  she  might  have  learned  among 
the  flock,  her  out-of-door  companions.  See  her  again  in 
parts  of  pure  fun,  such  as  the  Housemaid  in  the  Merry 
Mourners,  where  the  suspension  of  the  broom  in  her  hand, 
which  she  has  been  delightfully  twirling,  on  unexpectedly 
encountering  her  sweetheart  in  the  character  of  her 
fellow-servant,  is  quite  equal  to  Mrs.  Jordan's  cordial 
inebriation  in  Nell.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  not 
speaking  it  to  her  honour,  that  she  does  not  succeed  in 

what  are  called  fine  lady  parts.     Our  friend  C once 

observed  that  no  man  of  genius  ever  figured  as  a  gentle- 
man. Neither  did  any  woman  gifted  with  Mrs.  Jordan's 
or  Miss  Kelly's  sensibilities  ever  take  upon  herself  to 
shine  as  a  fine  lady ;  the  very  essence  of  this  character 
consisting  in  the  entire  repression  of  all  genius  and  all 
feeling.  To  sustain  a  part  of  this  kind  to  the  life,  a 
performer  must  be  haunted  by  a  perpetual  self-reference, 
she  must  be  always  thinking  of  herself,  and  how  she 
looks,  and  how  she  deports  herself  in  the  eyes  of  the 
spectators  ;  whereas  the  delight  of  actresses  of  true 
feeling  and  their  chief  power,  is  to  elude  the  personal 
notice  of  an  audience,  to  escape  into  their  parts  and  hide 
themselves  under  the  hood  of  their  assumed  character. 
Their  most  self-possession  is  in  fact  a  self-forgetfulness ; 
an  oblivion  alike  of  self  and  spectators.  For  this  reason 
your  most  approved  epilogue-speakers  have  been  always 
ladies  who  have  possessed  least  of  this  self -forgetting 


234  THEATRICAL  NOTICES. 

quality ;  and  I  think  I  have  seen  the  amiable  actress  in 
question  suffering  some  embarrassment,  when  she  has 
had  an  address  of  the  sort  to  deliver ;  when  she  found 
the  modest  veil  of  personation,  which  had  half  hid  her 
from  the  audience,  suddenly  withdrawn,  and  herself 
brought  without  any  such  gratifying  intervention  before 
the  public. 

I  would  apologise  for  the  length  of  this  letter,  if  I  did 
not  remember  the  lively  interest  you  used  to  take  in 
theatrical  performers. 

I  am,  etc.  etc. 

«*  *  *  *» 
February  7,  1819. 


FIKST  PEUITS  OF  AUSTRALIAN  POETRY. 

(Sydney,  New  South  Wales.     Printed  for  Private  Distribution. 
By  Ban-on  Field.) 

I  first  adventure  ;  follow  me  who  list : 
And  be  the  second  Austral  harmonist. 

WHOEVER  thou  art  that  hast  transplanted  the  British 
wood-notes  to  the  far-off  forests  which  the  Kangaroo 
haunts — whether  thou  art  some  involuntary  exile  that 
solaces  his  sad  estrangement  with  recurrence  to  his  native 
notes,  with  more  wisdom  than  those  captive  Hebrews  of 
old  refused  to  sing  their  Sion  songs  in  a  strange  land — 
or  whether,  as  we  rather  suspect,  thou  art  that  valued 
friend  of  ours,  who,  in  thy  young  time  of  life,  together 
with  thy  faithful  bride,  thy  newly  "  wedded  flower,"  didst, 
in  obedience  to  the  stern  voice  of  duty,  quit  thy  friends, 
thy  family,  thy  pleasing  avocations,  the  Muses  with  which 
thou  wert  as  deeply  smitten  as  any,  we  believe,  in  our  age 
and  country,  to  go  and  administer  tedious  justice  in 
inauspicious  unliterary  TniEFLAND,1  we  reclaim  thee  for 
our  own,  and  gladly  would  transport  thee  back  to  thy 
native  "  fields,"  and  studies  congenial  to  thy  habits. 

We  know  a  merry  captain,  and  co-navigator  with  Cook, 
who  prides  himself  upon  having  planted  the  first  pun  in 
Otaheite.  It  was  in  their  own  language,  and  the  islanders 
first  looked  at  him,  then  stared  at  one  another,  and  all  at 
once  burst  out  into  a  genial  laugh.  It  was  a  stranger, 

1  An  elegant  periphrasis  for  the  Bay.  Mr.  Coleridge  led  us  the 
way — "  Cloudland,  gorgeous  laud." 


236         FIRST  FRUITS  OF  AUSTRALIAN  POETRY. 

and  as  a  stranger  they  gave  it  welcome.  Many  a  quibble 
of  their  own  growth,  we  doubt  not,  has  since  sprung  from 
that  well-timed  exotic.  Where  puns  flourish,  there  must 
be  no  inconsiderable  advance  in  civilisation.  The  same 
good  results  we  are  willing  to  augur  from  this  dawn  of 
refinement  at  Sydney.  They  were  beginning  to  have 
something  like  a  theatrical  establishment  there,  which  we 
are  sorry  to  hear  has  been  suppressed ;  for  we  are  of 
opinion  with  those  who  think  that  a  taste  for  sucli  kind 
of  entertainments  is  one  remove  at  least  from  profligacy, 
and  that  Shakspere  and  Gay  may  be  as  safe  teachers  of 
morality  as  the  ordinary  treatises  which  assume  to  instil 
that  science.  We  have  seen  one  of  their  play-bills  (while 
the  thing  was  permitted  to  last),  and  were  affected  by  it 
in  no  ordinary  degree,  particularly  in  the  omission  of  the 
titles  of  honour,  which  in  this  country  are  condescendingly 
conceded  to  the  players.  In  their  Dramatis  Personse, 
Jobson  was  played  by  Smith ;  Lady  Loverule,  Jones ; 
Nell,  Wilkinson ;  gentlemen  and  lady  performers  alike 
curtailed  of  their  fair  proportions.  With  a  little  patronage, 
we  prophesy,  that  in  a  very  few  years  the  histrionic  estab- 
lishment of  Sydney  would  have  risen  in  respectability  ; 
and  the  humble  performers  would,  by  tacit  leave  or  open 
permission,  have  been  allowed  to  use  the  same  encouraging 
affixes  to  their  names,  which  dignify  their  prouder  brethren 
and  sisters  in  the  mother  country.  What  a  moral  advance- 
ment, what  a  lift  in  the  scale,  to  a  Braham  or  a  Stephens 
of  New  South  Wales,  to  write  themselves  Mr.  and  Miss  ! 
The  King  here  has  it  not  in  his  power  to  do  so  much  for 
a  commoner,  no,  not  though  he  dub  him  a  Duke. 

The  "First  Fruits"  consist  of  two  poems.  The  first 
celebrates  the  plant  epacris  grandiflora ;  but  we  are  no 
botanists,  and  perhaps  there  is  too  much  matter  mixed  up 
in  it  from  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  to  please  some 
readers.  The  thefts  are  indeed  so  open  and  palpable, 
that  we  almost  recur  to  our  first  surmise,  that  the  author 
must  be  some  unfortunate  wight,  sent  on  his  travels  fur 
plagiarisms  of  a  more  serious  complexion.  But  the  old 


FIRST  FRUITS  OF  AUSTRALIAN   POETRY.          237 

matter  and  the  new  blend  kindly  together,  and  must,  we 
hope,  have  proved  right  acceptable  to  more  than  one 

Among  the  fair 

Of  that  young  land  of  Shakspere's  tongue. 

We  select  for  our  readers  the  second  poem ;  and  are 
mistaken  if  it  does  not  relish  of  the  graceful  hyperboles 
of  our  elder  writers.  We  can  conceive  it  to  have  been 
written  by  Andrew  Marvell,  supposing  him  to  have  been 
banished  to  Botany  Bay,  as  he  did,  we  believe,  once 
meditate  a  voluntary  exile  to  Bermuda.  See  his  fine 
poem,  "  Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride." 


THE  GENTLE  GIANTESS. 

THE  widow  Blacket,  of  Oxford,  is  the  largest  female  I 
ever  had  the  pleasure  of  beholding.  There  may  be  her 
parallel  upon  the  earth ;  but  surely  I  never  saw  it.  I 
take  her  to  be  lineally  descended  from  the  maid's  aunt 
of  Brainford,  who  caused  Master  Ford  such  uneasiness. 
She  hath  Atlantean  shoulders ;  and,  as  she  stoopeth  in 
her  gait, — with  as  few  offences  to  answer  for  in  her  own 
particular  as  any  one  of  Eve's  daughters, — her  back  seems 
broad  enough  to  bear  the  blame  of  all  the  peccadilloes 
that  have  been  committed  since  Adam.  She  girdeth  her 
waist — or  what  she  is  pleased  to  esteem  as  such — nearly 
up  to  her  shoulders  ;  from  beneath  which  that  huge 
dorsal  expanse,  in  mountainous  declivity,  emergeth.  Re- 
spect for  her  alone  preventeth  the  idle  boys,  who  follow 
her  about  in  shoals,  whenever  she  cometh  abroad,  from 
getting  up  and  riding.  But  her  presence  infallibly  com- 
mands a  reverence.  She  is  indeed,  as  the  Americans 
would  express  it,  something  awful.  Her  person  is  a 
burthen  to  herself  no  less  than  to  the  ground  which  bears 
her.  To  her  mighty  bone,  she  had  a  pinguitude  withal, 
which  makes  the  depth  of  winter  to  her  the  most  desir- 
able season.  Her  distress  in  the  warmer  solstice  is 
pitiable.  During  the  months  of  July  and  August,  she 
usually  renteth  a  cool  cellar,  where  ices  are  kept,  where- 
into  she  descendeth  when  Sirius  rageth.  She  dates  from 
a  hot  Thursday,  —  some  twenty -five  years  ago.  Her 
apartment  in  summer  is  pervious  to  the  four  winds. 
Two  doors,  in  north  and  south  direction,  and  two  witi- 


THE  GENTLE  GIANTESS.  239 

dows,  fronting  the  rising  and  the  setting  sun,  never 
closed,  from  every  cardinal  point  catch  the  contributory 
breezes.  She  loves  to  enjoy  what  she  calls  a  quadruple 
draught.  That  must  be  a  shrewd  zephyr  that  can  escape 
her.  I  owe  a  painful  face-ache,  which  oppresses  me  at 
this  moment,  to  a  cold  caught,  sitting  by  her,  one  day  in 
last  July,  at  this  receipt  of  coolness.  Her  fan,  in  ordi- 
nary, resembleth  a  banner  spread,  which  she  keepeth  con- 
tinually on  the  alert  to  detect  the  least  breeze.  She 
possesseth  an  active  and  gadding  mind,  totally  incom- 
mensurate with  her  person.  No  one  delighteth  more 
than  herself  in  country  exercises  and  pastimes.  I  have 
passed  many  an  agreeable  holiday  with  her  in  her  favourite 
park  at  Woodstock.  She  performs  her  part  in  these 
delightful  ambulatory  excursions  by  the  aid  of  a  portable 
garden-chair.  She  setteth  out  with  you  at  a  fair  foot- 
gallop,  which  she  keepeth  up  till  you  are  both  well- 
breathed,  and  then  reposeth  she  for  a  few  seconds. 
Then  she  is  up  again  for  a  hundred  paces  or  so,  and 
again  resteth ;  her  movements,  on  these  sprightly  occa- 
sions, being  something  between  walking  and  flying.  Her 
great  weight  seemeth  to  propel  her  forward,  ostrich- 
fashion.  In  this  kind  of  relieved  marching,  I  have 
traversed  with  her  many  scores  of  acres  on  those  well- 
wooded  and  well -watered  domains.  Her  delight  at 
Oxford  is  in  the  public  walks  and  gardens,  where,  when 
the  weather  is  not  too  oppressive,  she  passeth  much  of 
her  valuable  time.  There  is  a  bench  at  Maudlin,  or 

rather  situated  between  the  frontiers  of  that  and 's 

College  (some  litigation,  latterly,  about  repairs,  has  vested 

the  property  of  it  finally  in 's),  where,  at  the  hour 

of  noon,  she  is  ordinarily  to  be  found  sitting, — so  she 
calls  it  by  courtesy, — but,  in  fact,  pressing  and  breaking 
of  it  down  with  her  enormous  settlement ;  as  both  those 
foundations, — who,  however,  are  good-natured  enough  to 
wink  at  it, — have  found,  I  believe,  to  their  cost.  Here 
she  taketh  the  fresh  air,  principally  at  vacation -times, 
when  the  walks  are  freest  from  interruption  of  the 


240  THE  GENTLE  GIANTESS. 

younger  fry  of  students.  Here  she  passeth  her  idle 
hours,  not  idly,  but  generally  accompanied  with  a  book, 
— blessed  if  she  can  but  intercept  some  resident  Fellow 
(as  usually  there  are  some  of  that  brood  left  behind  at 
these  periods),  or  stray  Master  of  Arts  (to  most  of  them 
she  is  better  known  than  their  dinner  bell),  with  whom 
she  may  confer  upon  any  curious  topic  of  literature.  I 
have  seen  these  shy  gownsmen,  who  truly  set  but  a  very 
slight  value  upon  female  conversation,  cast  a  hawk's  eye 
upon  her  from  the  length  of  Maudlin  Grove,  and  warily 
glide  off  into  another  walk, — true  monks  as  they  are; 
and  urgently  neglecting  the  delicacies  of  her  polished 
converse  for  their  own  perverse  and  uncommunicating 
solitariness !  Within-doors,  her  principal  diversion  is 
music,  vocal  and  instrumental ;  in  both  which  she  is  no 
mean  professor.  Her  voice  is  wonderfully  fine  ;  but  till 
I  got  used  to  it,  I  confess  it  staggered  me.  It  is,  for  all 
the  world,  like  that  of  a  piping  bullfinch ;  while,  from 
her  size  and  stature,  you  would  expect  notes  to  drown 
the  deep  organ.  The  shake,  which  most  fine  singers 
reserve  for  the  close  or  cadence,  by  some  unaccountable 
flexibility,  or  tremulousness  of  pipe,  she  carrieth  quite 
through  the  composition ;  so  that  her  time,  to  a  common 
air  or  ballad,  keeps  double  motion,  like  the  earth, — 
running  the  primary  circuit  of  the  tune,  and  still  revolv- 
ing upon  its  own  axis.  The  effect,  as  I  said  before,  when 
you  are  used  to  it,  is  as  agreeable  as  it  is  altogether  new 
and  surprising.  The  spacious  apartment  of  her  outward 
frame  lodgeth  a  soul  in  all  respects  disproportionate.  Of 
more  than  mortal  make,  she  evinceth  withal  a  trembling 
sensibility,  a  yielding  infirmity  of  purpose,  a  quick  sus- 
ceptibility to  reproach,  and  all  the  train  of  diffident  and 
blushing  virtues,  which  for  their  habitation  usually  seek 
out  a  feeble  frame,  an  attenuated  and  meagre  constitution. 
With  more  than  man's  bulk,  her  humours  and  occupations 
are  eminently  feminine.  She  sighs, — being  six  feet  high. 
She  languisheth, — being  two  feet  wide.  She  worketh 
slender  sprigs  upon  the  delicate  muslin, — her  fingers 


THE  GENTLE  GIANTESS.  241 

being  capable  of  moulding  a  Colossus.  She  sippeth  her 
wine  out  of  her  glass  daintily — her  capacity  being  that 
of  a  tun  of  Heidelberg.  She  goeth  mincingly  with  those 
feet  of  hers,  whose  solidity  need  not  fear  the  black  ox's 
pressure.  Softest  and  largest  of  thy  sex,  adieu !  By 
what  parting  attribute  may  I  salute  thee,  last  and  best 
of  the  Titanesses, — Ogress,  fed  with  milk  instead  of 
blood  ;  not  least,  or  least  handsome,  among  Oxford's 
stately  structures, — Oxford,  who,  in  its  deadest  time  of 
vacation,  can  never  properly  be  said  to  be  empty,  having 
thee  to  fill  it. 


ON  A  PASSAGE  IN  "THE  TEMPEST." 

As  long  as  I  can  remember  the  play  of  The  Tempest,  one 
passage  in  it  has  always  set  me  upon  wondering.  It  has 
puzzled  me  beyond  measure.  In  vain  I  strove  to  find 
the  meaning  of  it.  I  seemed  doomed  to  cherish  infinite, 
hopeless  curiosity. 

It  is  where  Prospero,  relating  the  banishment  of 
Sycorax  from  Argier,  adds  : — 

For  one  thing  that  she  did, 

They  would  not  take  her  life. 

How  have  I  pondered  over  this  when  a  boy !  How 
have  I  longed  for  some  authentic  memoir  of  the  witch  to 
clear  up  the  obscurity !  Was  the  story  extant  in  the 
chronicles  of  Algiers  1  Could  I  get  at  it  by  some  for- 
tunate introduction  to  the  Algeriue  ambassador?  Was 
a  voyage  thither  practicable?  The  Spectator,  I  knew, 
went  to  Grand  Cairo  only  to  measure  the  pyramid.  Was 
not  the  object  of  my  quest  of  at  least  as  much  importance  1 
The  blue-eyed  hag !  could  she  have  done  anything  good 
or  meritorious  ?  might  that  succubus  relent  ?  then  might 
there  be  hope  for  the  Devil.  I  have  often  admired  since 
that  none  of  the  commentators  have  boggled  at  this 
passage;  how  they  could  swallow  this  camel, — such  a 
tantalising  piece  of  obscurity,  such  an  abortion  of  an 
anecdote. 

At  length  I  think  I  have  lighted  upon  a  clue  which 
may  lead  to  show  what  was  passing  in  the  mind  of 
Shakspere  when  he  dropped  this  imperfect  rumour.  In 
the  "Accurate  Description  of  Africa,  by  John  Ogilby 


ON  A  PASSAGE  IN    "THE  TEMPEST."  243 

(folio),  1670,"  page  230,  I  find  written  as  follows.  The 
marginal  title  to  the  narrative  is,  "Charles  the  Fifth 
besieges  Algier"  : — 

"  In  the  last  place,  we  will  briefly  give  an  account  of 
the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth,  when  he  besieged  this 
city  :  and  of  the  great  loss  he  suffered  therein. 

"  This  prince,  in  the  year  one  thousand  five  hundred 
forty -one,  having  embarqued  upon  the  sea  an  army  of 
twenty-two  thousand  men  aboard  eighteen  galleys,  and 
an  hundred  tall  ships,  not  counting  the  barques  and 
shallops,  and  other  small  boats,  in  which  he  had  engaged 
the  principal  of  the  Spanish  and  Italian  nobility,  with  a 
good  number  of  the  Knights  of  Malta ;  he  was  to  land 
on  the  coasts  of  Barbary,  at  a  cape  called  Matifou.  From 
this  place  unto  the  city  of  Algier,  a  flat  shore  or  strand 
extends  itself  for  about  four  leagues,  the  which  is  exceed- 
ing favourable  to  galleys.  There  he  put  ashore  with  his 
army,  and  in  a  few  days  caused  a  fortress  to  be  built, 
which  unto  this  day  is  called  the  castle  of  the  Emperor. 

"  In  the  meantime  the  city  of  Algier  took  the  alarm, 
having  in  it  at  that  time  but  eight  hundred  Turks,  and 
six  thousand  Moors,  poor-spirited  men,  and  unexercised 
in  martial  affairs ;  besides  it  was  at  that  time  fortified 
only  uith  walls,  and  had  no  outworks :  insomuch  that 
by  reason  of  its  weakness,  and  the  great  forces  of  the 
Emperor,  it  could  not  in  appearance  escape  taking.  In 
fine,  it  was  attempted  with  such  order,  that  the  army 
came  up  to  the  very  gates,  where  the  Chevalier  de 
Savignac,  a  Frenchman  by  nation,  made  himself  remark- 
able above  all  the  rest  by  the  miracles  of  his  valour. 
For  having  repulsed  the  Turks,  who,  having  made  a 
sally  at  the  gate  called  Babasou,  and  there  desiring  to 
enter  along  with  them,  when  he  saw  that  they  shut  the 
gate  upon  him,  he  ran  his  poniard  into  the  same,  and 
left  it  sticking  deep  therein.  They  next  fell  to  battering 
the  city  by  the  force  of  cannon ;  which  the  assailants  so 
weakened,  that  in  that  great  extremity  the  defendants 
lost  their  coiirage,  and  resolved  to  surrender. 


244  ON  A  PASSAGE  IN  "  THE  TEMPEST." 

"  But  as  they  were  thus  intending,  there  was  a  witch 
of  the  town,  whom  the  history  does  not  name,  which 
went  to  seek  out  Assam  Aga,  that  commanded  within, 
and  prayed  him  to  make  it  good  yet  nine  days  longer 
with  assurance,  that  within  that  time  he  should  infallibly 
see  Algier  delivered  from  that  siege,  and  the  whole  army 
of  the  enemy  dispersed  so  that  Christians  should  be  as 
cheap  as  birds.  In  a  word,  the  thing  did  happen  in  the 
manner  as  foretold ;  for  upon  the  twenty- first  day  of 
October,  in  the  same  year,  there  fell  a  continual  rain 
upon  the  land,  and  so  furious  a  storm  at  sea,  that  one 
might  have  seen  ships  hoisted  into  the  clouds,  and  in  one 
instant  again  precipitated  into  the  bottom  of  the  water  : 
insomuch  that  that  same  dreadful  tempest  was  followed 
with  the  loss  of  fifteen  galleys,  and  above  an  hundred 
other  vessels ;  which  was  the  cause  why  the  Emperor, 
seeing  his  army  wasted  by  the  bad  weather,  pursued  by 
a  famine,  occasioned  by  wrack  of  his  ships,  in  which  was 
the  greatest  part  of  his  victuals  and  ammunition,  he  was 
constrained  to  raise  the  siege,  and  set  sail  for  Sicily, 
whither  he  retreated  with  the  miserable  reliques  of  his 
fleet. 

"  In  the  meantime  that  witch  being  acknowledged  the 
deliverer  of  Algier,  was  richly  remunerated,  and  the  credit 
of  her  charms  authorised.  So  that  ever  since,  witchcraft 
hath  been  very  freely  tolerated ;  of  which  the  chief  of  the 
town,  and  even  those  who  are  esteemed  to  be  of  greatest 
sanctity  among  them,  such  as  are  the  Marabous,  a  religious 
order  of  their  sects,  do  for  the  most  part  make  profession 
of  it,  under  a  goodly  pretext  of  certain  revelations  which 
they  say  they  have  had  from  their  prophet,  Mahomet. 

"  And  hereupon  those  of  Algier,  to  palliate  the  shame 
and  the  reproaches  that  are  thrown  upon  them  for  making 
use  of  a  witch  in  the  danger  of  this  siege,  do  say  that  the 
loss  of  the  forces  of  Charles  V.  was  caused  by  a  prayer  of 
one  of  their  Marabous,  named  Cidy  Utica,  which  was  at 
that  time  in  great  credit,  not  under  the  notion  of  a 
magician,  but  for  a  person  of  a  holy  life.  Afterwards  in 


OX  A  PASSAGE  IN   "  THE  TEMPEST."  245 

remembrance  of  their  success,  they  have  erected  unto  him 
a  small  mosque  without  the  Babason  gate,  where  he  is 
buried,  and  in  which  they  keep  sundry  lamps  burning  in 
honour  of  him :  nay,  they  sometimes  repair  thither  to 
make  their  sala,  for  a  testimony  of  greater  veneration." 

Can  it  be  doubted,  for  a  moment,  that  the  dramatist 
had  come  fresh  from  reading  some  older  narrative  of  this 
deliverance  of  Algier  by  a  witch,  and  transferred  the 
merit  of  the  deed  to  his  Sycorax,  exchanging  only  the 
"rich  remuneration,"  which  did  not  suit  his  purpose,  to 
the  simple  pardon  of  her  life?  Ogilby  wrote  in  1670; 
but  the  authorities  to  which  he  refers  for  his  account  of 
Barbary  are  Johannes  de  Leo,  or  Africanus,  Louis  Marmol, 
Diego  de  Haedo,  Johannes  Gramaye,  Braeves,  Gel.  Curio, 
and  Diego  de  Torres,  names  totally  unknown  to  me,  and 
to  which  I  beg  leave  to  refer  the  curious  reader  for  his 
fuller  satisfaction. 


LETTER  TO  AN  OLD  GENTLEMAN  WHOSE 
EDUCATION  HAS  BEEN  NEGLECTED. 

To  the  Editor  of  the  London  Magazine. 

DEAR  SIR, — I  send  you  a  bantering  "  Epistle  to  an  Old 
Gentleman  whose  Education  is  supposed  to  have  been 
neglected."  Of  course,  it  was  suggested  by  some  letters 
of  your  admirable  Opium-Eater,  the  discontinuance  of 
which  has  caused  so  much  regret  to  myself  in  common 
with  most  of  your  readers.  You  will  do  me  injustice  by 
supposing  that,  in  the  remotest  degree,  it  was  my  intention 
to  ridicule  those  papers.  The  fact  is,  the  most  serious 
things  may  give  rise  to  an  innocent  burlesque ;  and,  the 
more  serious  they  are,  the  fitter  they  become  for  that 
purpose.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Charles  Cotton 
did  not  entertain  a  very  high  regard  for  Virgil,  notwith- 
standing he  travestied  that  poet.  Yourself  can  testify 
the  deep  respect  I  have  always  held  for  the  profound 
learning  and  penetrating  genius  of  our  friend.  Nothing 
upon  earth  would  give  me  greater  pleasure  than  to  find 
that  he  has  not  lost  sight  of  his  entertaining  and 
instructive  purpose. 

I  am,  dear  Sir,  yours  and  his  sincerely, 

ELIA. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, — The  question  which  you  have  done  me 
the  honour  to  propose  to  me,  through  the  medium  of  our 
common  friend,  Mr.  Grierson,  I  shall  endeavour  to  answer 


LETTER  TO  AN  OLD  GENTLEMAN.  247 

with  as  much  exactness  as  a  limited  observation  and 
experience  can  warrant. 

You  ask, — or  rather  Mr.  Grierson,  in  his  own  interest- 
ing language,  asks  for  you, — "  Whether  a  person  at  the 
ag»  of  sixty-three,  with  no  more  proficiency  than  a  tolerable 
knowledge  of  most  of  the  characters  of  the  English  alphabet 
at  first  sight  amounts  to,  by  dint  of  persevering  application 
and  good  masters,  a  docile  and  ingenuous  disposition  on 
the  part  of  the  pupil  always  presupposed, — may  hope  to 
arrive,  within  a  presumable  number  of  years,  at  that 
degree  of  attainments  which  shall  entitle  the  possessor  to 
the  character,  which  you  are  on  so  many  accounts  justly 
desirous  of  acquiring,  of  a  learned  man." 

This  is  fairly  and  candidly  stated, — only  I  could  wish 
that  on  one  point  you  had  been  a  little  more  explicit. 
In  the  meantime,  I  will  take  it  for  granted,  that  by  a 
"knowledge  of  the  alphabetic  characters"  you  confine 
your  meaning  to  the  single  powers  only,  as  you  are  silent 
on  the  subject  of  the  diphthongs  and  harder  combinations. 

Why,  truly,  sir,  when  I  consider  the  vast  circle  of 
sciences, — it  is  not  here  worth  while  to  trouble  you  with 
the  distinction  between  learning  and  science,  which  a  man 
must  be  understood  to  have  made  the  tour  of  in  these 
days,  before  the  world  will  be  willing  to  concede  to  him 
the  title  which  you  aspire  to, — I  am  almost  disposed  to 
reply  to  your  inquiry  by  a  direct  answer  in  the  negative. 

However,  where  all  cannot  be  compassed,  a  great  deal 
that  is  truly  valuable  may  be  accomplished.  I  am  un- 
willing to  throw  out  any  remarks  that  should  have  a 
tendency  to  damp  a  hopeful  genius ;  but  I  must  not,  in 
fairness,  conceal  from  you  that  you  have  much  to  do. 
The  consciousness  of  difficulty  is  sometimes  a  spur  to 
exertion.  Rome — or  rather,  my  dear  sir,  to  borrow  an 
illustration  from  a  place  as  yet  more  familiar  to  you, 
Rumford — Rumford  was  not  built  in  a  day. 

Your  mind  as  yet,  give  me  leave  to  tell  you,  is  in  the 
state  of  a  sheet  of  white  paper.  We  must  not  blot  or 
blur  it  over  too  hastily.  Or,  to  use  an  opposite  simile,  it 


248  LETTER  TO  AN  OLD  GENTLEMAN. 

is  like  a  piece  of  parchment  all  bescravvled  and  bescribbled 
over  with  characters  of  no  sense  or  import,  which  we  must 
carefully  erase  and  remove  before  we  can  make  way  for 
the  authentic  characters  or  impresses  which  are  to  be 
substituted  in  their  stead  by  the  corrective  hand  of 
science. 

Your  mind,  my  dear  sir,  again,  resembles  that  same 
parchment,  which  we  will  suppose  a  little  hardened  by 
time  and  disuse.  We  may  apply  the  characters;  but 
are  we  sure  that  the  ink  will  sink  ? 

You  are  in  the  condition  of  a  traveller  that  has  all  his 
journey  to  begin.  And,  again,  you  are  worse  off  than 
the  traveller  which  I  have  supposed ;  for  you  have  already 
lost  your  way. 

You  have  much  to  learn,  which  you  have  never  been 
taught ;  and  more,  I  fear,  to  unlearn,  which  you  have 
been  taught  erroneously.  You  have  hitherto,  I  dare  say, 
imagined  that  the  suu  moves  round  the  earth.  When 
you  shall  have  mastered  the  true  solar  system,  you  will 
have  quite  a  diiferent  theory  upon  that  point,  I  assure 
you.  I  mention  but  this  instance.  Your  own  experi- 
ence, as  knowledge  advances,  will  furnish  you  with  many 
parallels. 

I  can  scarcely  approve  of  the  intention,  which  Mr. 
Grierson  informs  me  you  have  contemplated,  of  entering 
yourself  at  a  common  seminary,  and  working  your  way 
up  from  the  lower  to  the  higher  forms  with  the  children. 
I  see  more  to  admire  in  the  modesty  than  in  the  expe- 
diency of  such  a  resolution.  I  own  I  cannot  reconcile 
myself  to  the  spectacle  of  a  gentleman  at  your  time  of 
life,  seated,  as  must  be  your  case  at  first,  below  a  tyro  of 
four  or  five,  for  at  that  early  age  the  rudiments  of  edu- 
cation usually  commence  in  this  country.  I  doubt  whether 
more  might  not  be  lost  in  the  point  of  fitness  than  would 
be  gained  in  the  advantages  which  you  propose  to  yourself 
by  this  scheme. 

.  You  say  you  stand  in  need  of  emulation ;  that  this 
incitement  is  nowhere  to  be  had  but  at  a  public  school ; 


LETTER  TO  AN  OLD  GENTLEMAN.  249 

that  you  should  be  more  sensible  of  your  progress  by 
comparing  it  with  the  daily  progress  of  those  around  you. 
But  have  you  considered  the  nature  of  emulation,  and  how 
it  is  sustained  at  these  tender  years  which  you  would  have 
to  come  in  competition  with  1  I  am  afraid  you  are  dream- 
ing of  academic  prizes  and  distinctions.  Alas  !  in  the 
university  for  which  you  are  preparing,  the  highest  medal 
would  be  a  silver  penny ;  and  you  must  graduate  in  nuts 
and  oranges. 

I  know  that  Peter,  the  Great  Czar — or  Emperor — of 
Muscovy,  submitted  himself  to  the  discipline  of  a  dock- 
yard at  Deptford,  that  he  might  learn,  and  convey  to  his 
countrymen,  the  noble  art  of  shipbuilding.  You  are  old 
enough  to  remember  him,  or  at  least  the  talk  about  him. 
I  call  to  mind  also  other  great  princes,  who,  to  instruct 
themselves  in  the  theory  and  practice  of  war,  and  set  an 
example  of  subordination  to  their  subjects,  have  conde- 
scended to  enrol  themselves  as  private  soldiers ;  and,  pass- 
ing through  the  successive  ranks  of  corporal,  quartermaster, 
and  the  rest,  have  served  their  way  up  to  the  station  at 
which  most  princes  are  willing  enough  to  set  out, — of 
general  and  commander-in-chief  over  their  own  forces. 
But — besides  that  there  is  oftentimes  great  sham  and 
pretence  in  their  show  of  mock  humility — the  competition 
which  they  stooped  to  was  with  their  coevals,  however 
inferior  to  them  in  birth.  Between  ages  so  very  disparate 
as  those  which  you  contemplate,  I  fear  there  can  no 
salutary  emulation  subsist. 

Again  :  in  the  other  alternative,  could  you  submit  to 
the  ordinary  reproofs  and  discipline  of  a  dayschooU 
Could  you  bear  to  be  corrected  for  your  faults  ?  Or  how 
would  it  look  to  see  you  put  to  stand,  as  must  be  the  case 
sometimes,  in  a  corner  1 

I  am  afraid  the  idea  of  a  public  school  in  your  circum- 
stances must  be  given  up. 

But  is  it  impossible,  my  dear  sir,  to  find  some  person 
of  your  own  age, — if  of  the  other  sex,  the  more  agreeable, 
perhaps,— whp?e  information,  like  your  own.  has  rather 


250  LETTER  TO  AN  OLD  GENTLEMAN. 

lagged  behind  his  years,  who  should  be  willing  to  set  out 
from  the  same  point  with  yourself;  to  undergo  the  same 
tasks  1 — thus  at  once  inciting  and  sweetening  each  other's 
labours  in  a  sort  of  friendly  rivalry.  Such  a  one,  I  think, 
it  would  not  be  difficult  to  find  in  some  of  the  western 
parts  of  this  island, — about  Dartmoor  for  instance. 

Or  what  if,  from  your  own  estate, — that  estate,  which, 
unexpectedly  acquired  so  late  in  life,  has  inspired  into 
you  this  generous  thirst  after  knowledge, — you  were  to 
select  some  elderly  peasant,  that  might  best  be  spared 
from  the  land,  to  come  and  begin  his  education  with  you, 
that  you  might  till,  as  it  were,  your  minds  together, — 
one  whose  heavier  progress  might  invite,  without  a  fear 
of  discouraging,  your  emulation  1  We  might  then  see — 
starting  from  an  equal  post — the  difference  of  the  clownish 
and  the  gentle  blood. 

A  private  education,  then,  or  such  a  one  as  I  have 
been  describing,  being  determined  on,  we  must  in  the 
next  place  look  out  for  a  preceptor ;  for  it  will  be  some 
time  before  either  of  you,  left  to  yourselves,  will  be  able 
to  assist  the  other  to  any  great  purpose  in  his  studies. 

And  now,  my  dear  sir,  if,  in  describing  such  a  tutor 
as  I  have  imagined  for  you,  I  use  a  style  a  little  above  the 
familiar  one  in  which  I  have  hitherto  chosen  to  address 
you,  the  nature  of  the  subject  must  be  my  apology. 
Difficile  est  de  scientiis  inscienter  loqui  ;  which  is  as  much 
as  to  say,  that,  "  in  treating  of  scientific  matters,  it  is 
difficult  to  avoid  the  use  of  scientific  terms."  But  I 
shall  endeavour  to  be  as  plain  as  possible.  I  am  not  going 
to  present  you  with  the  ideal  of  a  pedagogue  as  it  may 
exist  in  my  fancy,  or  has  possibly  been  realised  in  the 
persons  of  Buchanan  and  Busby.  Something  less  than 
perfection  will  serve  our  turn.  The  scheme  which  I 
propose  in  this  first  or  introductory  letter  has  reference 
to  the  first  four  or  five  years  of  your  education  only ;  and 
in  enumerating  the  qualifications  of  him  that  should 
undertake  the  direction  of  your  studies,  I  shall  rather 
point  out  the  minimum,  or  least,  that  I  shall  require  of 


LETTER  TO  AX  OLD  GENTLEMAN.  251 

him,  than  trouble  you  in  the  search  of  attainments  neither 
common  nor  necessary  to  our  immediate  purpose. 

He  should  be  a  man  of  deep  and  extensive  knowledge. 
So  much  at  least  is  indispensable.  Something  older  than 
yourself,  I  could  wish  him,  because  years  add  reverence. 

To  his  age  and  great  learning,  he  should  be  blessed 
with  a  temper  and  a  patience  willing  to  accommodate  itself 
to  the  imperfections  of  the  slowest  and  meanest  capacities. 
Such  a  one,  in  former  days,  Mr.  Hartlib  appears  to  have 
been ;  and  such,  in  our  days,  I  take  Mr.  Grierson  to  be  : 
but  our  friend,  you  know,  unhappily,  has  other  engage- 
ments. I  do  not  demand  a  consummate  grammarian ; 
but  he  must  be  a  thorough  master  of  vernacular  ortho- 
graphy, with  an  insight  into  the  accentualities  and 
punctualities  of  modern  Saxon,  or  English.  He  must  be 
competently  instructed  (or  how  shall  he  instruct  you  1) 
in  the  tetralogy,  or  first  four  rules,  upon  which  not  only 
arithmetic,  but  geometry,  and  the  pure  mathematics  them- 
selves, are  grounded.  I  do  not  require  that  he  should 
have  measured  the  globe  with  Cook  or  Ortelius  ;  but  it 
is  desirable  that  he  should  have  a  general  knowledge  (I 
do  not  mean  a  very  nice  or  pedantic  one)  of  the  great 
division  of  the  earth  into  four  parts,  so  as  to  teach  you 
readily  to  name  the  quarters.  He  must  have  a  genius 
capable  in  some  degree  of  soaring  to  the  upper  element,  to 
deduce  from  thence  the  not  much  dissimilar  computation 
of  the  cardinal  points,  or  hinges,  upon  which  those 
invisible  phenomena,  which  naturalists  agree  to  term 
ivinds,  do  perpetually  shift  and  turn.  He  must  instruct 
you,  in  imitation  of  the  old  Orphic  fragments  (the  mention 
of  which  has  possibly  escaped  you),  in  numeric  and 
harmonious  responses,  to  deliver  the  number  of  solar 
revolutions  within  which  each  of  the  twelve  periods,  into 
which  the  Annus  Vvlgaris,  or  common  year,  is  divided, 
doth  usually  complete  and  terminate  itself.  The  inter- 
calaries  and  other  subtle  problems  he  will  do  well  to  omit, 
till  riper  years  and  course  of  study  shall  have  rendered 
you  more  capable  thereof.  He  must  be  capable  of 


252  LETTER  TO  AN  OLD  GENTLEMAN. 

embracing  all  history,  so  as,  from  the  countless  myriads 
of  individual  men  who  have  peopled  this  globe  of  earth, — 
•for  it  is  a  globe, — by  comparison  of  their  respective  birth?, 
lives,  deaths,  fortunes,  conduct,  prowess,  etc.,  to  pronounce, 
and  teach  you  to  pronounce,  dogmatically  and  catechetic- 
ally,  who  was  the  richest,  who  was  the  strongest,  who 
was  the  wisest,  who  was  the  meekest,  man  that  ever 
lived ;  to  the  facilitation  of  which  solution,  you  will  readily 
conceive,  a  smattering  of  biography  would  in  no  incon- 
siderable degree  conduce.  Leaving  the  dialects  of  men 
(in  one  of  which  I  shall  take  leave  to  suppose  you  by  this 
time  at  least  superficially  instituted),  you  will  learn  to 
-ascend  with  him  to  the  contemplation  of  that  unarticulated 
language  which  was  before  the  written  tongue ;  and,  with 
the  aid  of  the  elder  Phrygian  or  -ZEsopic  key,  to  interpret 
the  sounds  by  which  the  animal  tribes  communicate  their 
minds,  evolving  moral  instruction  with  delight  from  the 
dialogue  of  cocks,  dogs,  and  foxes.  Or,  marrying  theology 
with  verse,  from  whose  mixture  a  beautiful  and  healthy 
offspring  may  be  expected,  in  your  own  native  accents 
(but  purified),  you  will  keep  time  together  to  the  profound 
harpings  of  the  more  modern  or  Wattsian  hymnics. 

Thus  far  I  have  ventured  to  conduct  you  to  a  "  hill- 
side whence  you  may  discern  the  right  path  of  a  virtuous 
and  noble  education ;  laborious,  indeed,  at  the  first  ascent, 
but  else  so  smooth,  so  green,  so  full  of  goodly  prospects 
and  melodious  sounds  on  every  side,  that  the  harp  of 
Orpheus  was  not  more  charming."1 

With  my  best  respects  to  Mr.  Grierson  when  you  see 
him,  I  remain,  my  dear  Sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

ELIA. 

1  Milton's  "  Tractate  on  Education,"  addressed  to  Mr.  Hartlib. 


BIOGEAPHICAL  MEMOIR  OF  MR  LISTON. 

THE  subject  of  our  Memoir  is  lineally  descended  from 
Johan  de  L'Estonne  (see  "  Domesday  Book,"  where  he  is 
so  written),  who  came  in  with  the  Conqueror,  and  had 
lands  awarded  him  at  Lupton  Magna,  in  Kent.  His 
particular  merits  or  services,  Fabian,  whose  authority  I 
chiefly  follow,  has  forgotten,  or  perhaps  thought  it  im- 
material, to  specify.  Fuller  thinks  that  he  was  standard- 
bearer  to  Hugo  de  Agmondesham,  a  powerful  Norman 
baron,  who  was  slain  by  the  hand  of  Harold  himself  at 
the  fatal  battle  of  Hastings.  Be  this  as  it  may,  we  find 
a  family  of  that  name  flourishing  some  centuries  later  in 
that  county.  John  Delliston,  knight,  was  High  Sheriff 
for  Kent,  according  to  Fabian,  quinto  Henrici  Sexti  ; 
and  we  trace  the  lineal  branch  flourishing  downwards, — 
the  orthography  varying,  according  to  the  unsettled  usage 
of  the  times,  from  Delleston  to  Leston  or  Listen,  between 
which  it  seems  to  have  alternated,  till,  in  the  latter  end 
of  the  reign  of  James  I.,  it  finally  settled  into  the 
determinate  and  pleasing  dissyllabic  arrangement  which 
it  still  retains.  Amiuadab  Listen,  the  eldest  male  repre- 
sentative of  the  family  of  that  day,  was  of  the  strictest 
order  of  Puritans.  Mr.  Foss,  of  Pall  Mall,  has  obligingly 
communicated  to  me  an  undoubted  tract  of  his,  which 
bears  the  initials  only,  A.  L.,  and  is  entitled,  "The 
Grinning  Gla«s,  or  Actor's  Mirrour;  wherein  the  vitu- 
perative Visnomy  of  Vicious  Players  for  the  Scene  is  as 
virtuously  reflected  back  upon  their  mimetic  Monstrosities 
as  it  has  viciously  (hitherto)  vitiated  with  its  vile  Vanities 


254        BIOGRAPHICAL  MEMOIR  OF  MR.  LISTON. 

her  Votarists."  A  strange  title,  but  bearing  the  impress 
of  those  absurdities  with  which  the  title-pages  of  that 
pamphlet-spawning  age  abounded.  The  work  bears  date 
1617.  It  preceded  the  "  Histriomastix"  by  fifteen  years ; 
and,  as  it  went  before  it  in  time,  so  it  comes  not  far  short 
of  it  in  virulence.  It  is  amusing  to  find  an  ancestor  of 
Liston's  thus  bespattering  the  players  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  seventeenth  century  : — 

"  Thinketh  He  "  (the  actor),  "  with  his  costive  coun- 
tenances, to  wry  a  sorrowing  soul  out  of  her  anguish,  or 
by  defacing  the  divine  denotement  of  destinate  dignity 
(daignely  described  in  the  face  humane  and  no  other)  to 
reinstamp  the  Paradice-plotted  similitude  with  a  novel 
and  naughty  approximation  (not  in  the  first  intention)  to 
those  abhorred  and  ugly  God-forbidden  correspondences, 
with  flouting  'Apes'  jeering  gibberings,  and  Babion  bab- 
bling-like, to  hoot  out  of  countenance  all  modest  measure, 
as  if  our  sins  were  not  sufficing  to  stoop  our  backs  with 
out  He  wresting  and  crooking  his  members  to  mistimed 
mirth  (rather  malice)  in  deformed  fashion,  leering  when 
he  should  learn,  prating  for  praying,  goggling  his  eyes 
(better  upturned  for  grace),  whereas  in  Paradice  (if  we 
can  go  thus  high  for  His  professions)  that  devilish  Serpent 
appeareth  his  undoubted  Predecessor,  first  induing  a  mask 
like  some  roguish  roistering  Roscius  (I  spit  at  them  all) 
to  beguile  with  stage  shows  the  gaping  Woman,  whose 
Sex  hath  still  chiefly  upheld  these  Mysteries,  and  are 
voiced  to  be  the  chief  Stage-haunters,  where,  as  I  am 
told,  the  custom  is  commonly  to  mumble  (between  acts) 
apples,  not  ambiguously  derived  from  that  pernicious 
Pippin  (worse  in  effect  than  the  Apples  of  Discord), 
whereas  sometimes  the  hissing  sounds  of  displeasure,  as 
I  hear,  do  lively  reintonate  that  snake-taking-leave,  and 
diabolical  goings  off,  in  Paradice." 

The  Puritanic  effervescence  of  the  early  Presbyterians 
appears  to  have  abated  with  time,  and  the  opinions  of 
the  more  immediate  ancestors  of  our  subject  to  have 
subsided  at  length  into  a  strain  of  moderate  Calvinism. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  MEMOIR  OF  MR.  LISTON.         255 

Still  a  tincture  of  the  old  leaven  was  to  be  expected 
among  the  posterity  of  A.  L. 

Our  hero  was  an  only  son  of  Habakkuk  Liston,  settled 
as  an  Anabaptist  minister  upon  the  patrimonial  soil  of 
his  ancestors.  A  regular  certificate  appears,  thus  entered 
in  the  Church -book  at  Lupton  Magna : — "Johannes, 
filius  Habakkuk  et  Rebeccoe  Liston,  Dissentientium,  natus 
quinto  Decembri,  1780,  baptizatus  sexto  Februarii  se- 
qufntis ;  Sponsoribus  J.  et  W.  Woollaston,  und  cum 
Maria  Merry  weather."  The  singularity  of  an  Anabaptist 
minister  conforming  to  the  child-rites  of  the  Church 
would  have  tempted  me  to  doubt  the  authenticity  of  this 
entry,  had  I  not  been  obliged  with  the  actual  sight  of  it 
by  the  favour  of  Mr.  Minns,  the  intelligent  and  worthy 
parish  clerk  of  Lupton.  Possibly  some  expectation  in 
point  of  worldly  advantages  from  some  of  the  sponsors 
might  have  induced  this  unseemly  deviation,  as  it  must 
have  appeared,  from  the  practice  and  principles  of  that 
generally  rigid  sect  The  term  Dissentientium  was  pos- 
sibly intended  by  the  orthodox  clergyman  as  a  slur  upon 
the  supposed  inconsistency.  What,  or  of  what  nature, 
the  expectations  we  have  hinted  at  may  have  been,  we 
have  now  no  means  of  ascertaining.  Of  the  Woollastons 
no  trace  is  now  discoverable  in  the  village.  The  name 
of  Merry  weather  occurs  over  the  front  of  a  grocer's  shop 
at  the  western  extremity  of  Lupton. 

Of  the  infant  Liston  we  find  no  events  recorded  before 
his  fourth  year,  in  which  a  severe  attack  of  the  measles 
bid  fair  to  have  robbed  the  rising  generation  of  a  fund 
of  innocent  entertainment.  He  had  it  of  the  confluent 
kind,  as  it  is  called ;  and  the  child's  life  was  for  a  week 
or  two  despaired  of.  His  recovery  he  always  attributes 
(under  Heaven)  to  the  humane  interference  of  one  Dr. 
Wilhelm  Richter,  a  German  empiric,  who,  in  this  ex- 
tremity, prescribed  a  copious  diet  of  sawr-kraut,  which 
the  child  was  observed  to  reach  at  with  avidity,  when 
other  food  repelled  him  ;  and  from  this  change  of  diet 
his  restoration  was  rapid  and  complete.  We  have  often 


256        BIOGRAPHICAL  MEMOIR  OF  MR.  LISTON. 

heard  him  name  the  circumstance  with  gratitude  ;  and  it 
is  not  altogether  surprising  that  a  relish  for  this  kind  of 
aliment,  so  abhorrent  and  harsh  to  common  English 
palates,  has  accompanied  him  through  life.  When  any 
of  Mr.  Liston's  intimates  invite  him  to  supper,  he  never 
fails  of  finding,  nearest  to  his  knife  and  fork,  a  dish  of 
sauer-kraut. 

At  the  age  of  nine,  we  find  our  subject  under  the 
tuition  of  the  Eev.  Mr.  Goodenough  (his  father's  health 
not  permitting  him  probably  to  instruct  him  himself),  by 
whom  he  was  inducted  into  a  competent  portion  of  Latin 
and  Greek,  with  some  mathematics,  till  the  death  of  Mr. 
Goodenough,  in  his  own  seventieth,  and  Master  Liston's 
eleventh  year,  put  a  stop  for  the  present  to  his  classical 
progress. 

We  have  heard  our  hero,  with  emotions  which  do  his 
heart  honour,  describe  the  awful  circumstances  attending 
the  decease  of  this  worthy  old  gentleman.  It  seems  they 
had  been  walking  out  together,  master  and  pupil,  in  a 
fine  sunset  to  the  distance  of  three-quarters  of  a  mile 
west  of  Lupton,  when  a  sudden  curiosity  took  Mr.  Good- 
enough  to  look  down  upon  a  chasm,  where  a  shaft  had 
been  lately  sunk  in  a  mining  speculation  (then  projecting, 
but  abandoned  soon  after,  as  not  answering  the  promised 
success,  by  Sir  Ralph  Shepperton,  knight,  and  member 
for  the  county).  The  old  clergyman  leaning  over,  either 
with  incaution  or  sudden  giddiness  (probably  a  mixture 
of  both),  suddenly  lost  his  footing,  and,  to  use  Mr.  Liston's 
phrase,  disappeared,  and  was  doubtless  broken  into  a 
thousand  pieces.  The  sound  of  his  head,  etc.,  dashing 
successively  upon  the  projecting  masses  of  the  chasm, 
had  such  an  effect  upon  the  child,  that  a  serious  sickness 
ensued  ;  and,  even  for  many  years  after  his  recovery,  he 
was  not  once  seen  so  much  as  to  smile. 

The  joint  death  of  both  his  parents,  which  happened 
not  many  months  after  this  disastrous  accident,  and  were 
probably  (one  or  both  of  them)  accelerated  by  it,  threw 
our  youth  upon  the  protection  of  his  maternal  great-aunt 


BIOGRAPHICAL  MEMOIR  OF  MR.   LISTON.         257 

Mrs.  Sittingbourn.  Of  this  aunt  we  have  never  heard 
him  speak  but  with  expressions  amounting  almost  to 
reverence.  To  the  influence  of  her  early  counsels  and 
manners  he  has  always  attributed  the  firmness  with 
which,  in  maturer  years,  thrown  upon  a  way  of  life 
commonly  not  the  best  adapted  to  gravity  and  self-retire- 
ment, he  has  been  able  to  maintain  a  serious  character, 
untinctured  with  the  levities  incident  to  his  profession. 
Ann  Sittingbourn  (we  have  seen  her  portrait  by  Hudson) 
was  stately,  stiff,  tall,  with  a  cast  of  features  strikingly 
resembling  the  subject  of  this  memoir.  Her  estate  in 
Kent  was  spacious  and  well-wooded ;  the  house  one  »f 
those  venerable  old  mansions  which  are  so  impressive  in 
childhood,  and  so  hardly  forgotten  in  succeeding  years. 
In  the  venerable  solitudes  of  Charnwood,  among  thick 
shades  of  the  oak  and  beech  (this  last  his  favourite  tree) 
the  young  Listen  cultivated  those  contemplative  habits 
which  have  never  entirely  deserted  him  in  after  years. 
Here  he  was  commonly  in  the  summer  months  to  be  met 
with,  with  a  book  in  his  hand, — not  a  play-book, — 
meditating.  Boyle's  "  Reflections  "  was  at  one  time  the 
darling  volume  •  which,  in  its  turn,  was  superseded  by 
Young's  "  Night  Thoughts,"  which  has  continued  its  hold 
upon  him  through  life.  He  carries  it  always  about  him; 
and  it  is  no  uncommon  thing  for  him  to  be  seen,  in  the 
refreshing  intervals  of  his  occupation,  leaning  against  a 
side-scene,  in  a  sort  of  Herbert- of -Cherbury  posture, 
turning  over  a  pocket-edition  of  his  favourite  author. 

But  the  solitudes  of  Charnwood  were  not  destined 
always  to  obscure  the  path  of  our  young  hero.  The  pre- 
mature death  of  Mrs.  Sittingbourn,  at  the  age  of  seventy, 
occasioned  by  incautious  burning  of  a  pot  of  charcoal  in 
her  sleeping-chamber,  left  him  in  his  nineteenth  year 
nearly  without  resources.  That  the  stage  at  all  should 
have  presented  itself  as  an  eligible  scope  for  his  talents, 
and,  in  particular,  that  he  should  have  chosen  a  line  so 
foreign  to  what  appears  to  have  been  his  turn  of  mind, 
may  require  some  explanation, 
s 


258        BIOGRAPHICAL  MEMOIR  OF  MR.  LISTON. 

-At  Charnwood,  then,  we  behold  him,  thoughtful,  grave, 
ascetic.  From  his  cradle  averse  to  flesh-meats  and  strong 
drink ;  abstemious  even  beyond  the  genius  of  the  place, 
and  almost  in  spite  of  the  remonstrances  of  his  great-aunt, 
who,  though  strict,  was  not  rigid, — water  was  his  habitual 
drink,  and  his  food  little  beyond  the  mast  and  beech-nuts 
of  his  favourite  groves.  It  is  a  medical  fact  that  this 
kind  of  diet,  however  favourable  to  the  contemplative 
powers  of  the  primitive  hermits,  etc.,  is  but  ill-adapted 
to  the  less  robust  minds  and  bodies  of  a  later  generation. 
Hypochondria  almost  constantly  ensues.  It  was  so  in 
the  case  of  the  young  Listen.  He  was  subject  to  sights, 
and  had  visions.  Those  arid  beech-nuts,  distilled  by  a 
complexion  naturally  adust,  mounted  into  an  occiput 
already  prepared  to  kindle  by  long  seclusion  and  the 
fervour  of  strict  Calvinistic  notions.  In  the  glooms  of 
Charnwood  he  was  assailed  by  illusions  similar  in  kind 
to  those  which  are  related  of  the  famous  Anthony  of 
Padua.  Wild  antic  faces  would  ever  and  anon  protrude 
themselves  upon  his  sensorium.  Whether  he  shut  his 
eyes,  or  kept  them  open,  the  same  illusions  operated. 
The  darker  and  more  profound  were  his  cogitations,  the 
droller  and  more  whimsical  became  the  apparitions. 
They  buzzed  about  him  thick  as  flies,  flapping  at  him, 
flouting  him,  hooting  in  his  ear,  yet  with  such  comic 
appendages,  that  what  at  first  was  his  bane  became  at 
length  his  solace  ;  and  he  desired  no  better  society  than 
that  of  his  merry  phantasmata.  We  shall  presently  find 
in  what  way  this  remarkable  phenomenon  influenced  his 
future  destiny. 

On  the  death  of  Mrs.  Sittingbourn  we  find  him  received 
into  the  family  of  Mr.  Willoughby,  an  eminent  Turkey 
merchant,  resident  in  Birchin  Lane,  London.  We  lose  a 
little  while  here  the  chain  of  his  history, — by  what  in- 
ducements this  gentleman  was  determined  to  make*  him 
an  inmate  of  his  house.  Probably  he  had  had  some 
personal  kindness  for  Mrs.  Sittingbourn  formerly ;  but, 
however  it  was,  the  young  man  was  here  treated  more 


BIOGRAPHICAL  MEMOIR  OF  MR.  LISTON.         259 

like  a  son  than  a  clerk,  though  he  was  nominally  but  the 
latter.  Different  avocations,  the  change  of  scene,  with 
that  alternation  of  business  and  recreation  which  in  its 
greatest  perfection  is  to  be  had  only  in  London  appear 
to  have  weaned  him  in  a  short  time  from  the  hypochon- 
driacal  affections  which  had  beset  him  at  Charnwood. 

In  the  three  years  which  followed  his  removal  to  Birchin 
Lane,  we  find  him  making  more  than  one  voyage  to  the 
Levant,  as  chief  factor  for  Mr.  Willoughby  at  the  Porte. 
We  could  easily  fill  our  biography  with  the  pleasant 
passages  which  we  have  heard  him  relate  as  having 
happened  to  him  at  Constantinople ;  such  as  his  having 
been  taken  up  on  suspicion  of  a  design  of  penetrating  the 
seraglio,  etc. ;  but,  with  the  deepest  convincement  of  this 
gentleman's  own  veracity,  we  think  that  some  of  the 
stories  are  of  that  whimsical,  and  others  of  that  romantic 
nature,  which,  however  diverting,  would  be  out  of  place 
in  a  narrative  of  this  kind,  which  aims  not  only  at  strict 
truth,  but  at  avoiding  the  very  appearance  of  the  contrary. 

We  will  now  bring  him  over  the  seas  again,  and  suppose 
him  in  the  counting-house  in  Birchin  Lane,  his  protector 
satisfied  with  the  returns  of  his  factorage,  and  all  going 
on  so  smoothly,  that  we  may  expect  to  find  Mr.  Listen 
at  last  an  opulent  merchant  upon  'Change,  as  it  is  called. 
But  see  the  turns  of  destiny  !  Upon  a  summer's  excur- 
sion into  Xorfolk,  in  the  year  1801,  the  accidental  sight 
of  pretty  Sally  Parker,  as  she  was  called  (then  in  the 
Norwich  company),  diverted  his  inclinations  at  once  from 
commerce ;  and  he  became,  in  the  language  of  common- 
place biography,  stage-struck.  Happy  for  the  lovers  of 
mirth  was  it  that  our  hero  took  this  turn ;  he  might  else 
have  been  to  this  hour  that  unentertaining  character,  a 
plodding  London  merchant. 

We  accordingly  find  him  shortly  after  making  his  debut, 
as  it  is  called,  upon  the  Norwich  boards,  in  the  season  of 
that  year,  being  then  in  the  twenty-second  year  of  his 
age.  Having  a  natural  bent  to  tragedy,  he  chose  the 
part  of  Pyrrhus,  in  the  Distressed  Motfar,  to  Sally 


260        BIOGRAPHICAL  MEMOIR  OF  MR.  LISTON. 

Parker's  Hermione.  We  find  him  afterwards  as  Barn- 
well,  Altamont,  Chamont,  etc. ;  but,  as  if  Nature  had 
destined  him  to  the  sock,  an  unavoidable  infirmity 
absolutely  discapacitated  him  for  tragedy.  His  person, 
at  this  latter  period  of  which  I  have  been  speaking,  was 
graceful,  and  even  commanding ;  his  countenance  set  to 
gravity  :  he  had  the  power  of  arresting  the  attention  of 
an  audience  at  first  sight  almost  beyond  any  other  tragic 
actor.  But  he  could  not  hold  it.  To  understand  this 
obstacle,  we  must  go  back  a  few  years  to  those  appalling 
reveries  at  Charnwood.  Those  illusions,  which  had 
vanished  before  the  dissipation  of  a  less  recluse  life  and 
more  free  society,  now  in  his  solitary  tragic  studies,  and 
amid  the  intense  calls  upon  feeling  incident  to  tragic 
acting,  came  back  upon  him  with  tenfold  vividness.  In 
the  midst  of  some  most  pathetic  passage  (the  parting  of 
Jaffier  with  his  dying  friend,  for  instance),  he  would 
suddenly  be  surprised  with  a  fit  of  violent  horse-laughter. 
While  the  spectators  were  all  sobbing  before  him  with 
emotion,  suddenly  one  of  those  grotesque  faces  would 
peep  out  upon  him,  and  he  could  not  resist  the  impulse. 
A  timely  excuse  once  or  twice  served  his  purpose,  but  no 
audiences  could  be  expected  to  bear  repeatedly  this  viola- 
tion of  the  continuity  of  feeling.  He  describes  them 
(the  illusions)  as  so  many  demons  haunting  him,  and 
paralysing  every  effect.  Even  now,  I  am  told,  he  cannot 
recite  the  famous  soliloquy  in  Hamlet,  even  in  private, 
without  immoderate  bursts  of  laughter.  However,  what 
he  had  not  force  of  reason  sufficient  to  overcome,  he  had 
good  sense  enough  to  turn  into  emolument,  and  deter- 
mined to  make  a  commodity  of  his  distemper.  He 
prudently  exchanged  the  buskin  for  the  sock,  and  the 
illusions  instantly  ceased ;  or,  if  they  occurred  for  a  short 
season,  by  their  very  co-operation  added  a  zest  to  his 
comic  vein, — some  of  his  most  catching  faces  being  (as 
he  expresses  it)  little  more  than  transcripts  and  copies  of 
those  extraordinary  phantasmata. 

We  have  now  drawn  out  our  hero's  existence  to  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL  MEMOIR  OF  MR.   LISTON.         261 

period  when  he  was  about  to  meet,  for  the  first  time,  the 
sympathies  of  a  London  audience.  The  particulars  of 
his  success  since  have  been  too  much  before  our  eyes  to 
render  a  circumstantial  detail  of  them  expedient.  I 
shall  only  mention  that  Mr.  Willoughby,  his  resentments 
having  had  time  to  subside,  is  at  present  one  of  the 
fastest  friends  of  his  old  renegade  factor ;  and  that  Mr. 
Liston's  hopes  of  Miss  Parker  vanishing  along  with  his 
unsuccessful  suit  to  Melpomene,  in  the  autumn  of  1811 
he  married  his  present  lady,  by  whom  he  has  been 
blessed  with  one  son,  Philip,  and  two  daughters,  Ann 
and  Augustina. 


AUTOBIOGKAPHY  OF  MR  MUKDEN. 

HARK'EE,  Mr.  Editor.  A  word  in  your  ear.  They  tell 
me  you  are  going  to  put  me  in  print, — in  print,  sir ;  to 
publish  my  life.  What  is  my  life  to  you,  sir  1  What  is 
it  to  you  whether  I  ever  lived  at  all  ?  My  life  is  a  very 
good  life,  sir.  I  am  insured  in  the  Pelican,  sir.  I  am 
three-score  years  and  six, — six,  mark  me,  sir ;  but  I  can 
play  Polonius,  which,  I  believe,  few  of  your  corre — • 
correspondents  can  do,  sir.  I  suspect  tricks,  sir  :  I  smell 
a  rat ;  I  do,  I  do.  You  would  cog  the  die  upon  us ;  you 
would,  you  would,  sir.  But  I  will  forestall  you,  sir. 
You  would  be  deriving  me  from  William  the  Conqueror, 
with  a  murrain  to  you.  It  is  no  such  thing,  sir.  The 
town  shall  know  better,  sir.  They  begin  to  smoke  your 
flams,  sir.  Mr.  Liston  may  be  born  where  he  pleases, 
sir ;  but  I  will  not  be  born  at  Lup — Lupton  Magna  for 
anybody's  pleasure,  sir.  My  son  and  I  have  looked  over 
the  great  map  of  Kent  together,  and  we  can  find  no  such 
place  as  you  would  palm  upon  us,  sir ;  palm  upon  us,  I 
say.  Neither  Magna  nor  Parva,  as  iny  son  says,  and  he 
knows  Latin,  sir ;  Latin.  If  you  write  my  life  true,  sir, 
you  must  set  down,  that  I,  Joseph  Munden,  comedian, 
came  into  the  world  upon  Allhallows  Day,  Anno  Domini, 
1759 — 1759;  no  sooner  nor  later,  sir;  and  I  saw  the 
first  light — the  first  light,  remember,  sir,  at  Stoke  Pogis 
— Stoke  Pogis,  comitatu  Bucks,  and  not  at  Lup — Lup 
Magna,  which  I  believe  to  be  no  better  than  moonshine 
— moonshine ;  do  you  mark  me,  sir  1  I  wonder  you  can 
put  such  flim-flams  upon  us,  sir  ;  I  do,  I  do.  It  doea 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  MR.   MUNDEN.  263 

not  become  you,  sir ;  I  say  it, — I  say  it.  And  my  father 
was  an  honest  tradesman,  sir  :  he  dealt  in  malt  and  hops, 
sir ;  and  was  a  corporation-man,  sir ;  and  of  the  Church 
of  England,  sir,  and  no  Presbyterian ;  nor  Ana — Ana- 
baptist, sir ;  however  you  may  be  disposed  to  make 
honest  people  believe  to  the  contrary,  sir.  Your  bams 
are  found  out,  sir.  The  town  will  be  your  stale-puts  no 
longer,  sir  ;  and  you  must  not  send  us  jolly  fellows,  sir, — 
we  that  are  comedians,  sir, — you  must  not  send  us  into 
groves  and  char — charn  woods  a -moping,  sir.  Neither 
charns,  nor  charnel-houses,  sir.  It  is  not  our  constitution, 
sir  :  I  tell  it  you — I  tell  it  you.  I  was  a  droll  dog  from 
my  cradle.  I  came  into  the  world  tittering,  and  the 
midwife  tittered,  and  the  gossips  spilt  their  caudle  with 
tittering;  and,  when  I  was  brought  to  the  font,  the 
parson  could  not  christen  me  for  tittering.  So  I  was 
never  more  than  half  baptised.  And,  when  I  was  little 
Joey,  I  made  'em  all  titter ;  there  was  not  a  melancholy 
face  to  be  seen  in  Pogis.  Pure  nature,  sir.  I  was  born 
a  comedian.  Old  Screwup,  the  undertaker,  could  tell  you, 
sir,  if  he  were  living.  Why,  I  was  obliged  to  be  locked 
up  every  time  there  was  to  be  a  funeral  at  Pogis.  I  was 
— I  was,  sir  1  I  used  to  grimace  at  the  mutes,  as  he 
called  it,  and  put  'em  out  with  my  mops  and  my  mows, 
till  they  couldn't  stand  at  a  door  for  me.  And  when  I 
was  locked  up,  with  nothing  but  a  cat  in  my  company,  I 
followed  my  bent  with  trying  to  make  her  laugh ;  and 
sometimes  she  would,  and  sometimes  she  would  not. 
And  my  schoolmaster  could  make  nothing  of  me  :  I  had 
only  to  thrust  my  tongue  in  my  cheek — in  my  cheek, 
sir,  and  the  rod  dropped  from  his  fingers;  and  so  my 
education  was  limited,  sir.  And  I  grew  up  a  young 
fellow,  and  it  was  thought  convenient  to  enter  me  upon 
some  course  of  life  that  should  make  me  serious  ;  but  it 
wouldn't  do,  sir.  And  I  was  articled  to  a  drysalter.  My 
father  gave  forty  pounds  premium  with  me,  sir.  I  can 
show  the  indent — dent— dentures,  sir.  But  I  was  born 
to  be  a  comedian,  sir  :  so  I  ran  away,  and  listed  with  the 


264  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  ME,  MUNDEN. 

players,  sir :  and  I  topt  my  parts  at  Amersham  and 
Gerrard's  Cross,  and  played  my  own  father  to  his  face, 
in  his  own  town  of  Pogis,  in  the  part  of  Gripe,  when  I 
was  not  full  seventeen  years  of  age  ;  and  he  did  not 
know  me  again,  but  he  knew  me  afterwards ;  and  then 
he  laughed,  and  I  laughed,  and,  what  is  better,  the 
drysalter  laughed,  and  gave  me  up  my  articles  for  the 
joke's  sake  :  so  that  I  came  into  court  afterwards  with 
clean  hands — with  clean  hands — do  you  see,  sir  ? 

[Here  the  manuscript  becomes  illegible  for  two  or 
three  sheets  onwards,  which  we  presume  to  be  occasioned 
by  the  absence  of  Mr.  Munden,  jun.,  who  clearly  tran- 
scribed it  for  the  press  thus  far.  The  rest  (with  the 
exception  of  the  concluding  paragraph,  which  is  seem- 
ingly resumed  in  the  first  handwriting)  appears  to  con- 
tain a  confused  account  of  some  lawsuit,  in  which  the 
elder  Munden  was  engaged ;  with  a  circumstantial  history 
of  the  proceedings  of  a  case  of  breach  of  promise  of 
marriage,  made  to  or  by  (we  cannot  pick  out  which) 
Jemima  Munden,  spinster ;  probably  the  comedian's 
cousin,  for  it  does  not  appear  he  had  any  sister ;  with  a 
few  dates,  rather  better  preserved,  of  this  great  actor's 
engagements, — as  "Cheltenham  (spelt  Cheltnam),  1776;" 
"Bath,  1779;"  "London,  1789;"  together  with  stage 
anecdotes  of  Messrs.  Edwin,  Wilson,  Lee,  Lewis,  etc.; 
over  which  we  have  strained  our  eyes  to  no  purpose,  in 
the  hope  of  presenting  something  amusing  to  the  public. 
Towards  the  end,  the  manuscript  brightens  up  a  little,  as 
we  said,  and  concludes  in  the  following  mauuer : — ] 

stood  before  them  for  six  and  thirty  years  [we 

suspect  that  Mr.  Munden  is  here  speaking  of  his  final 
leave-taking  of  the  stage],  and  to  be  dismissed  at  last. 
But  I  was  heart-whole  to  the  last,  sir.  What  though  a 
few  drops  did  course  themselves  down  the  old  veteran's 
cheeks :  who  could  help  it,  sir  ?  I  was  a  giant  that 
night,  sir;  and  could  have  played  fifty  parts,  each  as 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  MR.  MUNDEN.  265 

arduous  as  Dozy.  My  faculties  were  never  better,  sir. 
But  I  was  to  be  laid  upon  the  shelf.  It  did  not  suit  the 
public  to  laugh  with  their  old  servant  any  longer,  sir. 
[Here  some  moisture  has  blotted  a  sentence  or  two.] 
But  I  can  play  Polonius  still,  sir ;  I  can,  I  can.  Your 
servant,  sir,  JOSEPH  MUNDEN. 


REFLECTIONS  IN  THE  PILLORY. 

ABOUT  the  year  18 — ,  one  R d,  a  respectable  London 

merchant  (since  dead)  stood  in  the  pillory  for  some  alleged 
fraud  upon  the  revenue.  Among  his  papers  were  found 
the  following  "  Reflections,"  which  we  have  obtained  by 
favour  of  our  friend  Elia,  who  knew  him  well,  and  had 
heard  him  describe  the  train  of  his  feelings,  upon  that 
trying  occasion,  almost  in  the  words  of  the  manuscript. 
Elia  speaks  of  him  as  a  man  (with  the  exception  of  the 
peccadillo  aforesaid)  of  singular  integrity  in  all  his  private 
dealings,  possessing  great  suavity  of  manner,  with  a 
certain  turn  for  humour.  As  our  object  is  to  present 
human  natxire  under  every  possible  circumstance,  we  do 
not  think  that  we  shall  sully  our  pages  by  inserting  it — 
EDITOR. 

SCENE, — Opposite  the  Royal  Exchange. 
TIME, — Twelve  to  One,  Noon. 

KETCH,  my  good  fellow,  you  have  a  neat  hand.  Prithee 
adjust  this  new  collar  to  my  neck  gingerly.  I  am  not 
used  to  these  wooden  cravats.  There,  softly,  softly. 
That  seems  the  exact  point  between  ornament  and 
strangulation.  A  thought  looser  on  this  side.  Now  it 
will  do.  And  have  a  care,  in  turning  me,  that  I  present 
my  aspect  due  vertically.  I  now  face  the  orient.  In  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  I  shift  southward, — do  you  mind1? — 
and  so  on  till  I  face  the  east  again,  travelling  with  the 
sun.  No  half-points,  I  beseech  you, — NN.  by  W.,  or 
any  such  elaborate  niceties.  They  become  the  shipman's 


REFLECTIONS  IN  THE  PILLORY.  267 

card,  but  not  this  mystery.  Now  leave  me  a  little  to 
my  own  reflections. 

Bless  us,  what  a  company  is  assembled  in  honour  of 
me  !  How  grand  I  stand  here  !  I  never  felt  so  sensibly 
before  the  effect  of  solitude  in  a  crowd.  I  muse  in 
solemn  silence  upon  that  vast  miscellaneous  rabble  in  the 
pit  there.  From  my  private  box  I  contemplate,  with 
mingled  pity  and  wonder,  the  gaping  curiosity  of  those 
underlings.  There  are  my  Whitechapel  supporters. 
Rosemary  Lane  has  emptied  herself  of  the  very  flower  of 
her  citizens  to  grace  my  show.  Duke's  Place  sits 
desolate.  What  is  there  in  my  face,  that  strangers 
should  come  so  far  from  the  east  to  gaze  upon  it  1  [Here 
an  egg  narrowly  misses  him.]  That  offering  was  well 
meant,  but  not  so  cleanly  executed.  By  the  tricklings, 
it  should  not  be  either  myrrh  or  frankincense.  Spare 
your  presents,  my  friends  :  I  am  noways  mercenary.  I 
desire  no  missive  tokens  of  your  approbation.  I  am 
past  those  valentines.  Bestow  these  coffins  of  untimely 
chickens  upon  mouths  that  water  for  them.  Comfort 
your  addle  spouses  with  them  at  home,  and  stop  the 
mouths  of  your  brawling  brats  with  such  Olla  Podridas  ; 
they  have  need  of  them.  [A  brick  is  let  fly ^\  Disease 
not,  I  pray  you,  nor  dismantle  your  rent  and  ragged 
tenements,  to  furnish  me  with  architectural  decorations, 
which  I  can  excuse.  This  fragment  might  have  stopped 
a  flaw  against  snow  comes.  [ A  coal  fliesl\  Cinders  are 
dear,  gentlemen.  This  nubbling  might  have  helped  the 
pot  boil,  when  your  dirty  cuttings  from  the  shambles  at 
three-halfpence  a  pound  shall  stand  at  a  cold  simmer. 
Now,  south  about,  Ketch.  I  would  enjoy  Australian 
popularity. 

What,  my  friends  from  over  the  water  !  Old  benchers 
— files  of  a  day — ephemeral  Romans — welcome  !  Doth 
the  sight  of  me  draw  souls  from  limbo  ?  Can  it  dispeople 
purgatory  1 — Ha  ! 

What  am  I,  or  what  was  my  father's  house,  that  I 
should  thus  be  set  up  a  spectacle  to  gentlemen  and  others? 


268  REFLECTIONS  IN  THE  PILLORY. 

Why  are  all  faces,  like  Persians  at  the  sunrise,  bent  singly 
on  mine  alone  ?  I  was  wont  to  be  esteemed  an  ordinary 
visnomy,  a  quotidian  merely.  Doubtless  these  assembled 
myriads  discern  some  traits  of  nobleness,  gentility,  breed- 
ing, which  hitherto  have  escaped  the  common  observation, 
— some  intimations,  as  it  were,  of  wisdom,  valour,  piety, 
and  so  forth.  My  sight  dazzles ;  and,  if  I  am  not  deceived 
by  the  too-familiar  pressure  of  this  strange  neckcloth  that 
envelopes  it,  my  countenance  gives  out  lambent  glories. 
For  some  painter  now  to  take  me  in  the  lucky  point  of 
expression  ! — the  posture  so  convenient ! — the  head  never 
shifting,  but  standing  quiescent  in  a  sort  of  natural  frame. 
But  these  artisans  require  a  westerly  aspect.  Ketch, 
turn  me. 

Something  of  St.  James's  air  in  these  my  new  friends. 
How  my  prospects  shift  and  brighten  !  Now,  if  Sir 
Thomas  Lawrence  be  anywhere  in  that  group,  his  fortune 
is  made  for  ever.  I  think  I  see  some  one  taking  out 
a  crayon.  I  will  compose  my  whole  face  to  a  smile, 
which  yet  shall  not  so  predominate  but  that  gravity  and 
gaiety  shall  contend,  as  it  were, — you  understand  me  1 
I  will  work  up  my  thoughts  to  some  mild  rapture, — a 
gentle  enthusiasm, — which  the  artist  may  transfer,  in  a 
manner,  warm  to  the  canvas.  I  will  inwardly  apostrophise 
my  tabernacle. 

Delectable  mansion,  hail !  House  not  made  of  every 
wood !  Lodging  that  pays  no  rent ;  airy  and  commodious ; 
which,  owing  no  window-tax,  art  yet  all  casement,  out  of 
which  men  have  such  pleasure  in  peering  and  overlooking, 
that  they  will  sometimes  stand  an  hour  together  to  enjoy 
thy  prospects !  Cell,  recluse  from  the  vulgar  !  Quiet 
retirement  from  the  great  Babel,  yet  affording  sufficient 
glimpses  into  it !  Pulpit,  that  instructs  without  note  or 
sermon-book ;  into  which  the  preacher  is  inducted  without 
tenth  or  first-fruit !  Throne,  unshared  and  single,  that 
disdainest  a  Brentford  competitor  !  Honour  without  co- 
rival  !  Or  hearest  thou,  rather,  magnificent  theatre,  in 
which  the  spectator  comes  to  see  and  to  be  seen  ?  From 


REFLECTIONS  IN  THE  PILLORY.  269 

thy  giddy  heights  I  look  down  upon  the  common  herd, 
•who  stand  with  eyes  upturned,  as  if  a  winged  messenger 
hovered  over  them  ;  and  mouths  open  as  if  they  expected 
manna.  I  feel,  I  feel,  the  true  episcopal  yearnings. 
Behold  in  me,  my  flock,  your  true  overseer !  What 
though  I  cannot  lay  hands,  because  my  own  are  laid; 
yet  I  can  mutter  benedictions.  True  otium  cum  dignitate! 
Proud  Pisgah  eminence  !  pinnacle  sublime  !  0  Pillory  ! 
'tis  thee  I  sing !  Thou  younger  brother  to  the  gallows, 
•without  his  rough  and  Esau  palms,  that  with  ineffable 
contempt  surveyest  beneath  thee  the  grovelling  stocks, 
which  claim  presumptuously  to  be  of  thy  great  race ! 
Let  that  low  wood  know  that  thou  art  far  higher  born. 
Let  that  domicile  for  groundling  rogues  and  base  earth- 
kissing  varlets  envy  thy  preferment,  not  seldom  fated  to 
be  the  wanton  baiting-house,  the  temporary  retreat,  of 
poet  and  of  patriot.  Shades  of  Bastwick  and  of  Prynne 
hover  over  thee, — Defoe  is  there,  and  more  greatly  daring 
Shebbeare, — from  their  (little  more  elevated)  stations 
they  look  down  with  recognitions.  Ketch,  turn  me. 

I  now  veer  to  the  north.  Open  your  widest  gates, 
thou  proud  Exchange  of  London,  that  I  may  look  in  as 
proudly  !  Gresham's  wonder,  hail !  I  stand  upon  a  level 
with  all  your  kings.  They  and  I,  from  equal  heights, 
•with  equal  superciliousness,  o'erlook  the  plodding  money- 
hunting  tribe  below,  who,  busied  in  their  sordid  specula- 
tions, scarce  elevate  their  eyes  to  notice  your  ancient,  or 
my  recent,  grandeur.  The  second  Charles  smiles  on  me 
from  three  pedestals ! l  He  closed  the  Exchequer :  I 
cheated  the  Excise.  Equal  our  darings,  equal  be  our  lot. 

Are  those  the  quarters  1  'tis  their  fatal  chime.     That 


1  A  statue  of  Charles  II.,  by  the  elder  Gibber,  adorns  the 
front  of  the  Exchange.  He  stands  also  on  high,  in  the  train 
of  his  crowned  ancestors,  in  his  proper  order,  wtthin  that  build- 
ing. But  the  merchants  of  London,  in  a  superfetation  of  loyalty, 
have,  within  a  few  years,  caused  to  be  erected  another  effigy  of 
him  on  the  ground  in  the  centre  of  the  interior  We  do  not 
hear  that  a  fourth  is  in  contemplation. 


270  REFLECTIONS  IN  THE  PILLORY. 

the  ever-winged  hours  would  but  stand  still !  but  I  must 
descend — descend  from  this  dream  of  greatness.  Stay, 
stay,  a  little  while,  importunate  hour-hand  !  A  moment 
or  two,  and  I  shall  walk  on  foot  with  the  undistinguished 
many.  The  clock  speaks  one.  I  return  to  common  life. 
Ketch,  let  me  out. 


THE  LAST  PEACH. 

I  AM  the  miserablest  man  living.  Give  me  counsel,  dear 
Editor.  I  was  bred  up  in  the  strictest  principles  of 
honesty,  and  have  passed  my  life  in  punctual  adherence 
to  them.  Integrity  might  be  said  to  be  ingrained  in  our 
family.  Yet  I  live  in  constant  fear  of  one  day  coming 
to  the  gallows. 

Till  the  latter  end  of  last  autumn  I  never  experienced 
these  feelings  of  self-mistrust  which  ever  since  have  em- 
bittered my  existence.  From  the  apprehension  of  that 
unfortunate  man,1  whose  story  began  to  make  so  great 
an  impression  upon  the  public  about  that  time,  I  date 
my  horrors.  I  never  can  get  it  out  of  my  head  that  I 
shall  some  time  or  other  commit  a  forgery,  or  do  some 
equally  vile  thing.  To  make  matters  worse,  I  am  in  a 
banking-house.  I  sit  surrounded  with  a  cluster  of  bank- 
notes. These  were  formerly  no  more  to  me  than  meat 
to  a  butcher's  dog.  They  are  now  as  toads  and  aspics. 
I  feel  all  day  like  one  situated  amidst  gins  and  pitfalls. 
Sovereigns,  which  I  once  took  such  pleasure  in  counting 
out ;  and  scraping  up  with  my  little  tin  shovel  (at  which 
I  was  the  most  expert  in  the  banking-house),  now  scald 
my  hands.  When  I  go  to  sign  my  name,  I  set  down 
that  of  another  person,  or  write  my  own  in  a  counterfeit 
character.  I  am  beset  with  temptations  without  motive. 
I  want  no  more  wealth  than  I  possess.  A  more  contented 
being  than  myself,  as  to  money  matters,  exists  not.  What 
should  I  fear? 

1  Fauutleroy. 


272  THE  LAST  PEACH. 

When  a  child,  I  was  once  let  loose,  by  favour  of  a 
nobleman's  gardener,  into  his  lordship's  magnificent  fruit- 
garden,  with  full  leave  to  pull  the  currants  and  the  goose- 
berries ;  only  I  was  interdicted  from  touching  the  wall- 
fruit.  Indeed,  at  that  season  (it  was  the  end  of  autumn), 
there  was  little  left.  Only  on  the  south  wall  (can  I  for- 
get the  hot  feel  of  the  brickwork  f)  lingered  the  one  last 
peach.  Now,  peaches  are  a  fruit  which  I  always  had, 
and  still  have,  an  almost  utter  aversion  to.  There  is 
something  to  my  palate  singularly  harsh  and  repulsive  in 
the  flavour  of  them.  I  know  not  by  what  demon  of 
contradiction  inspired,  but  I  was  haunted  by  an  irresistible 
desire  to  pluck  it.  Tear  myself  as  often  as  I  would  from 
the  spot,  I  found  myself  still  recurring  to  it ;  till  madden- 
ing with  desire  (desire  I  cannot  call  it),  with  wilfulness 
rather, — without  appetite, — against  appetite,  I  may  call 
it, — in  an  evil  hour,  I  reached  out  my  hand  and  plucked 
it.  Some  few  raindrops  just  then  fell ;  the  sky  (from  a 
bright  day)  became  overcast ;  and  I  was  a  type  of  our 
first  parents,  after  the  eating  of  that  fatal  fruit.  I  felt 
myself  naked  and  ashamed,  stripped  of  my  virtue,  spirit- 
less. The  downy  fruit,  whose  sight  rather  than  savour 
had  tempted  me,  dropped  from  my  hand  never  to  be 
tasted.  All  the  commentators  in  the  world  cannot  per- 
suade me  but  that  the  Hebrew  word,  in  the  second 
chapter  of  Gensis,  translated  "  apple,"  should  be  rendered 
"  peach."  Only  this  way  can  I  reconcile  that  mysterious 
story. 

Just  such  a  child  at  thirty  am  I  among  the  cash  and 
valuables,  longing  to  pluck,  without  an  idea  of  enjoyment 
further.  I  cannot  reason  myself  out  of  these  fears  :  I 
dare  not  laugh  at  them.  I  was  tenderly  and  lovingly 
brought  up.  What  then  1  Who  that  in  life's  entrance  had 

seen  the  babe  P ,  from  the  lap  stretching  out  his 

little  fond  mouth  to  catch  the  maternal  kiss,  could  have 
predicted,  or  as  much  as  imagined,  that  life's  very  different 
exit  ?  The  sight  of  my  own  fingers  torments  me ;  they 
seem  so  admirably  constructed  for — pilfering.  Then  that 


THE  LAST  PEACH.  273 

jugular  vein  which  I  have  in  common ;  in  an  em- 
phatic sense  may  I  say  with  David,  I  am  "fearfully 
made."  All  my  mirth  is  poisoned  by  these  unhappy 
suggestions.  If,  to  dissipate  reflection,  I  hum  a  tune,  it 
changes  to  the  "  Lamentations  of  a  Sinner."  My  very 
dreams  are  tainted.  I  awake  with  a  shocking  feeling  of 
my  hand  in  some  pocket. 

Advise  me,  dear  Editor,  on  this  painful  heart-malady. 
Tell  me,  do  you  feel  anything  allied  to  it  in  yourself? 
Do  you  never  feel  an  itching,  as  it  were, — a  dactylomania, 
— or  am  I  alone  ?  You  have  my  honest  confession.  My 
next  may  appear  from  Bow  Street. 


THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DEFUNCT. 

SINCE  writing  this  article,  we  have  been  informed  that 
the  object  of  our  funeral  oration  is  not  definitively  dead, 
but  only  moribund.  So  much  the  better  :  we  shall  have 
an  opportunity  of  granting  the  request  made  to  Walter 
by  one  of  the  children  in  the  wood,  and  "  kill  Lira  two 
times."  The  Abbs'  de  Vertot  having  a  siege  to  write, 
and  not  receiving  the  materials  in  time,  composed  the 
whole  from  his  invention.  Shortly  after  its  completion, 
the  expected  documents  arrived,  when  he  threw  them 
aside,  exclaiming,  "  You  are  of  no  use  to  me  now :  I  have 
carried  the  town." 

Nought  but  a  blank  remains,  a  dead  void  space, 
A  step  of  life  that  promised  such  a  race. — DRYDEN. 

Napoleon  has  now  sent  us  back  from  the  grave 
sufficient  echoes  of  his  living  renown  :  the  twilight  of 
posthumous  fame  has  lingered  long  enough  over  the  spot 
where  the  sun  of  his  glory  set ;  and  his  name  must  at 
length  repose  in  the  silence,  if  not  in  the  darkness,  of 
night.  In  this  busy  and  evanescent  scene,  other  spirits 
of  the  age  are  rapidly  snatched  away,  claiming  our  un- 
divided sympathies  and  regrets,  until  in  turn  they  yield 
to  some  newer  and  more  absorbing  grief.  Another  name 
is  now  added  to  the  list  of  mighty  departed, — a  name 
whose  influence  upon  the  hopes  and  fears,  the  fates  and 
fortunes,  of  our  countrymen,  has  rivalled,  and  perhaps 
eclipsed,  that  of  the  defunct  "child  and  champion  of 
Jacobinism,"  while  it  is  associated  with  all  the  sanctions 


THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DEFUNCT.  275 

of  legitimate  government,  all  the  sacred  authorities  of 
social  order  and  our  most  holy  religion.  We  speak  of 
one,  indeed,  under  whose  warrant  heavy  and  incessant  con- 
tributions were  imposed  upon  our  fellow-citizens,  but  who 
exacted  nothing  without  the  signet  and  the  sign-manual 
of  most  devout  Chancellors  of  the  Exchequer.  Not  to 
dally  longer  with  the  sympathies  of  our  readers,  we  think 
it  right  to  premonish  them  that  we  are  composing  an 
epicediurn  upon  no  less  distinguished  a  personage  than  the 
Lottery,  whose  last  breath,  after  many  penultimate  puffs, 
has  been  sobbed  forth  by  sorrowing  contractors,  as  if  the 
world  itself  were  about  to  be  converted  into  a  blank. 
There  is  a  fashion  of  eulogy,  as  well  as  of  vituperation ; 
and,  though  the  Lottery  stood  for  some  time  in  the  latter 
predicament,  we  hesitate  not  to  assert  that  multis  ille 
bonis  fleltilis  occidit.  Never  have  we  joined  in  the  sense- 
less clamour  which  condemned  the  only  tax  whereto  we 
became  voluntary  contributors, — the  only  resource  which 
gave  the  stimulus  without  the  danger  or  infatuations  of 
gambling  ;  the  only  alembic  which  in  these  plodding  days 
sublimised  our  imaginations,  and  filled  them  with  more 
delicious  dreams  than  ever  flitted  athwart  the  sensorium 
of  Alnaschar. 

Never  can  the  writer  forget,  when,  as  a  child,  he  was 
hoisted  upon  a  servant's  shoulder  in  Guildhall,  and  looked 
down  upon  the  installed  and  solemn  pomp  of  the  then 
drawing  Lottery.  The  two  awful  cabinets  of  iron,  upon 
whose  massy  and  mysterious  portals  the  royal  initials 
were  gorgeously  emblazoned,  as  if,  after  having  deposited 
the  unfulfilled  prophecies  within,  the  king  himself  had 
turned  the  lock,  and  still  retained  the  key  in  his  pocket ; 
the  blue-coat  boy,  witli  his  naked  arm,  first  converting 
the  invisible  wheel,  and  then  diving  into  the  dark  recess 
for  a  ticket ;  the  grave  and  reverend  faces  of  the  com- 
missioners eyeing  the  announced  number ;  the  scribes 
below  calmly  committing  it  to  their  huge  books ;  the 
anxious  countenances  of  the  surrounding  populace ;  while 
the  giant  figures  of  Gog  and  Magog,  like  presiding  deities, 


276  THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DEFUNCT. 

looked  down  with  a  grim  silence  upon  the  whole  proceed- 
ing,— constituted  altogether  a  scene,  which,  combined 
with  the  sudden  wealth  supposed  to  be  lavished  from 
those  inscrutable  wheels,  was  well  calculated  to  impress 
the  imagination  of  a  boy  with  reverence  and  amazement. 
Jupiter,  seated  between  the  two  fatal  urns  of  good  and 
evil,  the  blind  goddess  with  her  cornucopia,  the  Parcse 
wielding  the  distaff,  the  thread  of  life,  and  the  abhorred 
shears,  seemed  but  dim  and  shadowy  abstractions  of 
mythology,  when  I  had  gazed  upon  an  assemblage 
exercising,  as  I  dreamt,  a  not  less  eventful  power,  and 
all  presented  to  me  in  palpable  and  living  operation. 
Reason  and  experience,  ever  at  their  old  spiteful  work  of 
catching  and  destroying  the  bubbles  which  youth  delighted 
to  follow,  have  indeed  dissipated  much  of  this  illusion ; 
but  my  mind  so  far  retained  the  influence  of  that  early 
impression,  that  I  have  ever  since  continued  to  deposit 
my  humble  offerings  at  its  shrine,  whenever  the  ministers 
of  the  Lottery  went  forth  with  type  and  trumpet  to 
announce  its  periodical  dispensations  ;  and  though  nothing 
has  been  doled  out  to  me  from  its  undiscerning  coffers 
but  blanks,  or  those  more  vexatious  tantalisers  of  the 
spirit  denominated  small  prizes,  yet  do  I  hold  myself 
largely  indebted  to  this  most  generous  diffuser  of  universal 
happiness.  Ingrates  that  we  are  !  are  we  to  be  thankful 
for  no  benefits  that  are  not  palpable  to  sense,  to  recognise 
no  favours  that  are  not  of  marketable  value,  to  acknow- 
ledge no  wealth  unless  it  can  be  counted  with  the  five 
fingers  1  If  we  admit  the  mind  to  be  the  sole  depository 
of  genuine  joy,  where  is  the  bosom  that  has  not  been 
elevated  into  a  temporary  Elysium  by  the  magic  of  the 
Lottery  1  Which  of  us  has  not  converted  his  ticket,  or 
even  his  sixteenth  share  of  one  into  a  nest-egg  of  Hope, 
upon  which  he  has  sate  brooding  in  the  secret  roosting- 
places  of  his  heart,  and  hatched  it  into  a  thousand 
fantastical  apparitions  1 

What  a  startling  revelation  of  the  passions  if  all  the 
aspirations  engendered  by  the  Lottery  could  be  made 


THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DEFUNCT.  277 

manifest !  Many  an  impecuniary  epicure  has  gloated  over 
his  locked-up  warrant  for  future  wealth,  as  a  means  of 
realising  the  dream  of  his  namesake  in  the  "Alchemist:" 

"  My  meat  shall  all  come  in  in  Indian  shells,5'  etc. 

Many  a  doting  lover  has  kissed  the  scrap  of  paper 
whose  promissory  shower  of  gold  was  to  give  up  to  him 
his  otherwise  unattainable  Danae :  Nimrods  have  trans- 
formed the  same  narrow  symbol  into  a  saddle,  by  which 
they  have  been  enabled  to  bestride  the  backs  of  peerless 
hunters ;  while  nymphs  have  metamorphosed  its  Protean 
form  into — 

"  Rings,  gauds,  conceits, 
Knacks,  trifles,  nosegays,  sweetmeats," 

and  all  the  braveries  of  dress,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
obsequious  husband,  the  two  footman'd  carriage,  and  the 
opera  box.  By  the  simple  charm  of  this  numbered  and 
printed  rag,  gamesters  have,  for  a  time  at  least,  recovered 
their  losses  :  spendthrifts  have  cleared  off  mortgages  from 
their  estates ;  the  imprisoned  debtor  has  leapt  over  his 
lofty  boundary  of  circumscription  and  restraint,  and 
revelled  in  all  the  joys  of  liberty  and  fortune;  the 
cottage-walls  have  swelled  out  into  more  goodly  propor- 
tion than  those  of  Baucis  and  Philemon ;  poverty  has 
tasted  the  luxuries  of  competence ;  labour  has  lolled  at 
ease  in  a  perpetual  armchair  of  idleness ;  sickness  has 
been  bribed  into  banishment ;  life  has  been  invested  with 
new  charms ;  and  death  deprived  of  its  former  terrors. 
Nor  have  the  aifections  been  less  gratified  than  the  wants, 
appetites,  and  ambitions  of  mankind.  By  the  conjurations 
of  the  same  potent  spell,  kindred  have  lavished  anticipated 
benefits  upon  one  another,  and  charity  upon  all.  Let  it 
be  termed  a  delusion, — a  fool's  paradise  is  better  than 
the  wise  man's  Tartarus ;  be  it  branded  as  an  ignis-fatuus, 
— it  was  at  least  a  benevolent  one,  which,  instead  of 
beguiling  its  followers  into  swamps,  caverns,  and  pitfalls, 
allured  them  on  with  all  the  blandishments  of  enchant- 


278  THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DEFUNCT. 

ment  to  a  garden  of  Eden, — an  ever-blooming  Elysium  of 
delight.  True,  the  pleasures  it  bestowed  were  evanes- 
cent :  but  which  of  our  joys  are  permanent  ?  and  who  so 
inexperienced  as  not  to  know  that  anticipation  is  always 
of  higher  relish  than  reality,  which  strikes  a  balance  both 
in  our  sufferings  and  enjoyments  1  "  The  fear  of  ill 
exceeds  the  ill  we  fear;"  and  fruition,  in  the  same  pro- 
portion, invariably  falls  short  of  hope.  "  Men  are  but 
children  of  a  larger  growth,"  who  may  amuse  themselves 
for  a  long  time  in  gazing  at  the  reflection  of  the  moon  iu 
the  water  ;  but,  if  they  jump  in  to  grasp  it,  they  may 
grope  for  ever,  and  only  get  the  farther  from  their  object. 
He  is  the  wisest  who  keeps  feeding  upon  the  future,  and 
refrains  as  long  as  possible  from  undeceiving  himself  by 
converting  his  pleasant  speculations  into  disagreeable 
certainties. 

The  true  mental  epicure  always  purchased  his  ticket 
early,  and  postponed  inquiry  into  its  fate  to  the  last 
possible  moment,  during  the  whole  of  which  intervening 
period  he  had  an  imaginary  twenty  thousand  locked  up 
in  his  desk  :  and  was  not  this  well  worth  all  the  money  ? 
Who  would  scruple  to  give  twenty  pounds  interest  for  even 
the  ideal  enjoyment  of  as  many  thousands  during  two  or 
three  months  1  Crede  quod  kales,  et  habes ;  and  the 
usufruct  of  such  a  capital  is  surely  not  dear  at  such  a 
price.  Some  years  ago,  a  gentleman  in  passing  along 
Cheapside  saw  the  figures  10G9,  of  which  number  he  was 
the  sole  proprietor,  flaming  on  the  window  of  a  lottery- 
office  as  a  capital  prize.  Somewhat  flurried  by  this 
discovery,  not  less  welcome  than  unexpected,  he  resolved 
to  walk  round  St.  Paul's  that  he  might  consider  in  what 
way  to  communicate  the  happy  tidings  to  his  wife  and 
family ;  but,  upon  re-passing  the  shop  he  observed  that 
the  number  was  altered  to  10,069,  and,  upon  inquiry, 
had  the  mortification  to  learn  that  his  ticket  was  a  blank, 
and  had  only  been  stuck  up  in  the  window  by  a  mistake 
of  the  clerk.  This  effectually  calmed  his  agitation ;  but  he 
always  speaks  of  himself  as  having  once  possessed  twenty 


THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DEFUNCT.  279 

thousand  pounds,  and  maintains  that  his  ten-minutes' 
walk  round  St.  Paul's  was  worth  ten  times  the  purchase- 
money  of  the  ticket.  A  prize  thus  obtained  has,  more- 
over, this  special  advantage, — it  is  beyond  the  reach  of 
fate ;  it  cannot  be  squandered ;  bankruptcy  cannot  lay 
siege  to  it ;  friends  cannot  pull  it  down,  nor  enemies  blow 
it  up ;  it  bears  a  charmed  life,  and  none  of  woman  born 
can  break  its  integrity,  even  by  the  dissipation  of  a 
single  fraction.  Show  me  the  property  in  these  perilous 
times,  that  is  equally  compact  and  impregnable.  We 
can  no  longer  become  enriched  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour ; 
we  can  no  longer  succeed  in  such  splendid  failures ;  all 
our  chances  of  making  such  a  miss  have  vanished  with 
the  last  of  the  Lotteries. 

Life  will  now  become  a  flat,  prosaic  routine  of  matter- 
of-fact  ;  and  sleep  itself  erst  so  prolific  of  numerical  con- 
figurations and  mysterious  stimulants  to  lottery  adventure, 
will  be  disfurnished  of  its  figures  and  figments.  People 
will  cease  to  harp  upon  the  one  lucky  number  suggested 
in  a  dream,  and  which  forms  the  exception,  while  they  are 
scrupulously  silent  upon  the  ten  thousand  falsified  dreams 
which  constitute  the  rule.  Morpheus  will  stifle  Cocker 
with  a  handful  of  poppies,  and  our  pillows  will  be  no 
longer  haunted  by  the  book  of  numbers. 

And  who,  too,  shall  maintain  the  art  and  mystery  of 
puffing,  in  all  its  pristine  glory,  when  the  lottery  pro- 
fessors shall  have  abandoned  its  cultivation  ?  They  were 
the  first,  as  they  will  assuredly  be  the  last,  who  fully 
developed  the  resources  of  that  ingenious  art ;  who  cajoled 
and  decoyed  the  most  suspicious  and  wary  reader  into  a 
perusal  of  their  advertisements  by  devices  of  endless 
variety  and  cunning ;  who  baited  their  lurking  schemes 
with  midnight  murders,  ghost-stories,  crim-cons,  bon-mots, 
balloons,  dreadful  catastrophies,  and  every  diversity  of  joy 
and  sorrow,  to  catch  newspaper -gudgeons.  Ought  not 
such  talents  to  be  encouraged?  Verily  the  abolitionists 
have  much  to  answer  for  ! 

And  now,  having  established  the  felicity  of  all  those 


280  THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DEFUNCT. 

who  gained  imaginary  prizes,  let  us  proceed  to  show  that 
the  equally  numerous  class  who  were  presented  with  real 
blanks  have  not  less  reason  to  consider  themselves  happy. 
Most  of  us  have  cause  to  be  thankful  for  that  which  is 
bestowed !  but  we  have  all,  probably,  reason  to  be  still 
more  grateful  for  that  which  is  withheld,  and  more 
especially  for  our  being  denied  the  sudden  possession  of 
riches.  In  the  Litany,  indeed,  we  call  upon  the  Lord  to 
deliver  us  "in  all  time  of  our  wealth;"  but  how  few  of 
us  are  sincere  in  deprecating  such  a  calamity !  Massinger's 
Luke,  and  Ben  Jonson's  Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  and  Pope's 
Sir  Balaam,  and  our  own  daily  observation,  might  con- 
vince us  that  the  Devil  "  now  tempts  by  making  rich,  not 
making  poor."  We  may  read  in  the  Guardian  a  circum- 
stantial account  of  a  man  who  was  utterly  ruined  by 
gaining  a  capital  prize ;  we  may  recollect  what  Dr. 
Johnson  said  to  Garrick,  when  the  latter  was  making  a 
display  of  his  wealth  at  Hampton  Court — "  Ah,  David, 
David !  these  are  the  things  that  make  a  death -bed 
terrible ;"  we  may  recall  the  Scripture  declaration,  as  to 
the  difficulty  a  rich  man  finds  in  entering  the  kingdom  of 
Heaven ;  and,  combining  all  these  denunciations  against 
opulence,  let  us  heartily  congratulate  one  another  upon 
our  lucky  escape  from  the  calamity  of  a  twenty  or  thirty 
thousand  pound  prize  !  The  fox  in  the  fable,  who  accused 
the  unattainable  grapes  of  sourness,  was  more  of  a  philo- 
sopher than  we  are  generally  willing  to  allow.  He  was 
an  adept  in  that  species  of  moral  alchemy  which  turns 
everything  to  gold,  and  converts  disappointment  itself 
into  a  ground  of  resignation  and  content.  Such  we  have 
shown  to  be  the  great  lesson  inculcated  by  the  Lottery, 
when  rightly  contemplated  ;  and,  if  we  might  parody 
M.  de  Chateaubriand's  jingling  expression, — "  Le  Roi  est 
mort:  vive  le  Roi/" — we  should  be  tempted  to  exclaim, 
"  The  Lottery  is  no  more  :  long  live  the  Lottery  !" 


THE  KELIGION  OF  ACTOES. 

THE  world  has  hitherto  so  little  troubled  its  head  upon 
the  points  of  doctrine  held  by  a  community  which  con- 
tributes in  other  ways  so  largely  to  its  amusement,  that, 
before  the  late  mischance  of  a  celebrated  tragic  actor,  it 
scarce  condescended  to  look  into  the  practice  of  any 
individual  player,  much  less  to  inquire  into  the  hidden 
and  abscondite  springs  of  his  actions.  Indeed,  it  is  with 
some  violence  to  the  imagination  that  we  conceive  of  an 
actor  as  belonging  to  the  relations  of  private  life,  so 
closely  do  we  identify  these  persons  in  our  mind  with 
the  characters  which  they  assume  upon  the  stage.  How 
oddly  does  it  sound,  when  we  are  told  that  the  late  Miss 
Pope,  for  instance, — that  is  to  say,  in  our  notion  of  her 
Mrs.  Candour, — was  a  good  daughter,  an  affectionate 
sister,  and  exemplary  in  all  the  parts  of  domestic  life ! 
With  still  greater  difficulty  can  we  carry  our  notions  to 
church,  and  conceive  of  Listen  kneeling  upon  a  hassock,  or 
Munden  uttering  a  pious  ejaculation, — "  making  mouths 
at  the  invisible  event."  But  the  times  are  fast  improv- 
ing; and,  if  the  process  of  sanctity  begun  under  the 
happy  auspices  of  the  present  licencer  go  on  to  its  com- 
pletion, it  will  be  as  necessary  for  a  comedian  to  give 
an  account  of  his  faith  as  of  his  conduct.  Fawcett  must 
study  the  five  points ;  and  Dicky  Suett,  if  he  were  alive, 
would  have  to  rub  up  his  catechism.  Already  the  effects 
of  it  begin  to  appear.  A  celebrated  performer  has  thought 
fit  to  oblige  the  world  with  a  confession  of  his  faith, — or 

Br 's  Religio  Dramatici.     This  gentleman,  in  his 

laudable  attempt  to  shift  from  his  person  the  obloquy  of 


282  THE  RELIGION  OF  ACTORS. 

Judaism,  with  a  forwardness  of  a  new  convert,  in  trying 
to  prove  too  much,  has,  in  the  opinion  of  many,  proved 
too  little.  A  simple  declaration  of  his  Christianity  was 
sufficient ;  but,  strange  to  say,  his  apology  has  not  a  word 
about  it.  We  are  left  to  gather  it  from  some  expressions 
which  imply  that  he  is  a  Protestant ;  but  we  did  not 
wish  to  inquire  into  the  niceties  of  his  orthodoxy.  To 
his  friends  of  the  old  persuasion  the  distinction  was 
impertinent ;  for  what  cares  Rabbi  Ben  Kimchi  for  the 
differences  which  have  split  our  novelty  1  To  the  great 
body  of  Christians  that  holds  the  Pope's  supremacy — 
that  is  to  say,  to  the  major  part  of  the  Christian  world 
— his  religion  will  appear  as  much  to  seek  as  ever.  But 
perhaps  he  conceived  that  all  Christians  are  Protestants, 
as  children  and  the  common  people  call  all,  that  are  not 
animals,  Christians.  The  mistake  was  not  very  consider- 
able in  so  young  a  proselyte,  or  he  might  think  the 
general  (as  logicians  speak)  involved  in  the  particular. 
All  Protestants  are  Christians ;  but  I  am  a  Protestant ; 
ergo,  etc.:  as  if  a  marmoset,  contending  to  be  a  man, 
overleaping  that  term  as  too  generic  and  vulgar,  should 
at  once  roundly  proclaim  himself  to  be  a  gentleman. 
The  argument  would  be,  as  we  say,  exabundanti.  From 
whichever  course  this  excessw  in  terminis  proceeded,  we 
can  do  no  less  than  congratulate  the  general  state  of 
Christendom  upon  the  accession  of  so  extraordinary  a 
convert.  Who  was  the  happy  instrument  of  the  conver- 
sion, we  are  yet  to  learn  :  it  comes  nearest  to  the  attempt 
of  the  late  pious  Dr.  Watts  to  Christianise  the  Psalms 
of  the  Old  Testament.  Something  of  the  old  Hebrew 
raciuess  is  lost  in  the  transfusion ;  but  much  of  its 
asperity  is  softened  and  pared  down  in  the  adaptation. 

The  appearance  of  so  singular  a  treatise  at  this  con- 
juncture has  set  us  upon  an  inquiry  into  the  present  state 
of  religion  upon  the  stage  generally.  By  the  favour  of 
the  Churchwardens  of  St.  Martin's  in  the  Fields,  and  St. 
Paul's,  Covent  Garden,  who  have  very  readily,  and  with 
great  kindness,  assisted  our  pursuit,  we  are  enabled  to  lay 


THE  RELIGION  OF  ACTORS.  283 

before  the  public  the  following  particulars.  Strictly 
speaking,  neither  of  the  two  great  bodies  is  collectively  a 
religious  institution.  We  expected  to  find  a  chaplain 
among  them,  as  at  St.  Stephen's  and  other  Court  estab- 
lishments ;  and  were  the  more  surprised  at  the  omission, 
as  the  last  Mr.  Bengough  at  the  one  house,  and  Mr. 
Powell  at  the  other,  from  a  gravity  of  speech  and  demean- 
our, and  the  habit  of  wearing  black  at  their  first  appear- 
ances in  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  or  the  conclusion  of  the 
fourth  act,  so  eminently  pointed  out  their  qualifications 
for  such  office.  These  corporations,  then,  being  not 
properly  congregational,  we  must  seek  the  solution  of  our 
question  in  the  tastes,  attainments,  accidental  breeding, 
and  education  of  the  individual  members  of  them.  As 
we  were  prepared  to  expect,  a  majority  at  both  houses 
adhere  to  the  religion  of  the  Church  Established, — only 
that  at  one  of  them  a  strong  leaven  of  Roman  Catholicism 
is  suspected ;  which,  considering  the  notorious  education 
of  the  manager  at  a  foreign  seminary,  is  not  so  much  to 
be  wondered  at.  Some  have  gone  so  far  as  to  report  that 

Mr.  T y,  in  particular,  belongs  to  an  order  lately 

restored  on  the  Continent.  We  can  contradict  this  :  that 
gentleman  is  a  member  of  the  Kirk  of  Scotland :  and  his 
name  is  to  be  found,  much  to  his  h'onour,  in  the  list  of 
seceders  from  the  congregation  of  Mr.  Fletcher.  While 
the  generality,  as  we  have  said,  are  content  to  jog  on  in 
the  safe  trammels  of  national  orthodoxy,  symptoms  of  a 
sectarian  spirit  have  broken  out  in  quarters  where  we 
should  least  have  looked  for  it.  Some  of  the  ladies  at 

both  houses  are  deep  in  controverted  points.    Miss  F e, 

we  are  credibly  informed,  is  a  Sub-  and  Madame  V 

a  «S'w/>ra-Lapsarian.  Mr.  Pope  is  the  last  of  the  exploded 
sect  of  the  Ranters.  Mr.  Sinclair  has  joined  the  Shakers. 
Mr.  Grimaldi  sen.,  after  being  long  a  Jumper,  has  lately 
fallen  into  some  whimsical  theories  respecting  the  fall  of 
man ;  which  he  understands,  not  of  an  allegorical,  but  a 
real  tur&ble,  by  which  the  whole  body  of  humanity  became, 
as  it  were,  lame  to  the  performance  of  good  works.  Pride 


284  THE  RELIGION  OF  ACTORS. 

he  will  have  to  be  nothing  but  a  stiff  neck ;  irresolution, 
the  nerves  shaken ;  an  inclination  to  sinister  paths, 
crookedness  of  the  joints  ;  spiritual  deadness,  a  paralysis ; 
want  of  charity,  a  contraction  in  the  fingers ;  despising  of 
government,  a  broken  head ;  the  plaster,  a  sermon  •  the 
lint  to  bind  it  up,  the  text ;  the  probers,  the  preachers ; 
a  pair  of  crutches,  the  old  and  new  law ;  a  bandage, 
religious  obligation :  a  fanciful  mode  of  illustration, 
derived  from  the  accidents  and  habits  of  his  past  calling 
spiritualised,  rather  than  from  any  accurate  acquaintance 
with  the  Hebrew  text,  in  which  report  speaks  him  but  a 
raw  scholar.  Mr.  Elliston,  from  all  we  can  learn,  has 
his  religion  yet  to  choose ;  though  some  think  him  a 
Muggletoniau. 


THE   MONTHS. 

RUMMAGING  over  the  contents  of  an  old  stall  at  a  half 
book,  half  old-iron  shop,  in  an  alley  leading  from  Wardour 
Street  to  Soho  Square,  yesterday,  I  lit  upon  a  ragged 
duodecimo  which  had  been  the  strange  delight  of  my 
infancy,  and  which  I  had  lost  sight  of  for  more  than 
forty  years, — the  "Queen-like  Closet,  or  Rich  Cabinet ;" 
written  by  Hannah  Woolly,  and  printed  for  R.  C.  and  T. 
S.,  1681 ;  being  an  abstract  of  receipts  in  cookery,  con- 
fectionery, cosmetics,  needlework,  morality,  and  all  such 
branches  of  what  were  then  considered  as  female  accom- 
plishments. The  price  demanded  was  sixpence,  which 
the  owner  (a  little  squab  duodecimo  character  himself) 
enforced  with  the  assurance  that  his  "  own  mother  should 
not  have  it  for  a  farthing  less."  On  my  demurring  at 
this  extraordinary  assertion,  the  dirty  little  vendor  rein- 
forced his  assertion  with  a  sort  of  oath,  which  seemed 
more  than  the  occasion  demanded :  "  And  now,"  said  he, 
"  I  have  put  my  soul  to  it."  Pressed  by  so  solemn  an 
asseveration,  I  could  no  longer  resist  a  demand  which 
seemed  to  set  me,  however  unworthy,  upon  a  level  with 
its  dearest  relations ;  and  depositing  a  tester,  I  bore  away 
the  tattered  prize  in  triumph.  I  remember  a  gorgeous 
description  of  the  twelve  months  of  the  year,  which  I 
thought  would  be  a  fine  substitute  for  those  poetical 
descriptions  of  them  which  your  "  Every  Day  Book  "  had 
nearly  exhausted  out  of  Spenser.  This  will  be  a  treat, 
thought  I,  for  friend  Hone.  To  memory  they  seemed 
no  less  fantastic  and  splendid  than  the  other.  But  what 


286  THE  MONTHS. 

are  the  mistakes  of  childhood  !  On  reviewing  them,  they 
turned  out  to  be  only  a  set  of  commonplace  receipts  for 
working  the  seasons,  months,  heathen  gods  and  goddesses, 
etc.,  in  samplers !  Yet,  as  an  instance  of  the  homely 
occupation  of  our  great  grandmothers,  they  may  be 
amusing  to  some  readers.  "  I  have  seen,"  says  the  notable 
Hannah  Woolly,  "  such  Ridiculous  things  done  in  work, 
as  it  is  an  abomination  to  any  Artist  to  behold.  As  for 
example :  You  may  find,  in  some  Pieces,  Abraham  and 
Sarah,  and  many  other  Persons  of  Old  time,  Clothed  as 
they  go  nowadays,  and  truly  sometimes  worse ;  for  they 
most  resemble  the  Pictures  on  Ballads.  Let  all  Ingenious 
Women  have  regard,  that  when  they  work  any  Image,  to 
represent  it  aright.  First,  let  it  be  Drawn  well,  and  then 
observe  the  Directions  which  are  given  by  Knowing  Men. 
I  do  assure  you,  I  never  durst  work  any  Scripture  Story 
without  informing  myself  from  the  Ground  of  it;  nor  any 
other  Story,  or  single  Person  without  informing  myself 
both  of  the  Visage  and  Habit ;  as  followeth  : — 

"  If  your  work  Jupiter,  the  Imperial  feigned  God,  lie 
must  have  long,  Black  Curled  hair,  a  Purple  Garment 
trimmed  with  Gold,  and  sitting  upon  a  golden  throne, 
with  bright  yellow  Clouds  about  him." 

THE  TWELVE  MONTHS  OF  THE  YEAR. 

March.  Is  drawn  in  Tawny,  with  a  fierce  aspect ;  a 
Helmet  upon  his  head,  and  leaning  on  a  Spade ;  and  a 
Basket  of  Garden-Seeds  in  his  left  hand,  and  in  his  Right 
hand  the  sign  of  Aries  ;  and  Winged. 

April.  A  young  Man  in  Green,  with  a  Garland  of 
Myrtle  and  Hawthorn-buds  ;  Winged  ;  in  one  hand  Prim- 
roses and  Violets,  in  the  other  the  Sign  Taurus. 

May.  With  a  Sweet  and  lovely  Countenance  :  clad 
in  a  Robe  of  White  and  Green,  embroidered  with  several 
Flowers ;  upon  his  Head  a  garland  of  all  manner  of 
roses ;  on  the  one  hand  a  Nightingale,  in  the  other  a 
Lute.  His  sign  must  be  Gemini. 

June.     In  a  Mantle  of  dark  Grass -green ;  upon  his 


THE  MONTHS.  287 

Head  a  garland  of  Bents,  Kings-cups,  and  Maiden-hair ; 
in  his  Left  hand  an  Angle,  with  a  box  of  Cantharides  ;  in 
his  Right,  the  Sign  Cancer  ;  and  upon  his  arms  a  Basket 
of  seasonable  Fruits. 

July.  In  a  Jacket  of  light  Yellow,  eating  Cherries ; 
with  his  Face  and  Bosom  Sun -burnt !  on  his  Head  a 
wreath  of  Centaury  and  wild  Thyme ;  a  Scythe  on  his 
shoulder,  and  a  bottle  at  his  girdle ;  carrying  the  Sign 
Leo. 

August.  A  Young  Man  of  fierce  and  Choleric  aspect, 
in  a  Flame-coloured  garment ;  upon  his  head  a  garland  of 
Wheat  and  Rye ;  upon  his  Arm  a  Basket  of  all  manner 
of  ripe  Fruits  ;  at  his  Belt  a  Sickle ;  his  Sign  Virgo. 

September.  A  merry  and  cheerful  Countenance,  in 
a  Purple  Robe ;  upon  his  Head  a  Wreath  of  red  and 
white  Grapes  ;  in  his  Left  hand  a  handful  of  Oats  ;  withal 
carrying  a  Horn  of  Plenty,  full  of  all  manner  of  ripe 
Fruits ;  in  his  right  hand  the  sign  Libra. 

October.  In  a  Garment  of  Yellow  and  Carnation  ; 
upon  his  head  a  garland  of  Oak-leaves  with  Acorns ;  in 
his  right  hand  the  sign  Scorpio;  in  his  Left  hand  a 
Basket  of  Medlars,  Services,  and  Chestnuts,  and  any 
other  Fruits  then  in  Season. 

November.  In  a  Garment  of  Changeable  Green  and 
Black;  upon  his  Head  a  garland  of  Olives,  with  the 
Fruit  in  his  Left  hand ;  Bunches  of  Parsnips  and  Turnips 
in  his  Right ;  his  Sign  Sagittarius. 

December.  A  horrid  and  fearful  aspect,  clad  in  Irish 
rags,  or  coarse  frieze  girt  unto  him ;  upon  his  Head  three 
or  four  Night-Caps,  and  over  them  a  Turkish  Turban  ;  his 
Nose  red,  his  Mouth  and  Beard  clogged  with  icicles  ;  at 
his  back  a  bundle  of  holly,  ivy,  or  mistletoe  j  holding  in 
furred  mittens  the  sign  of  C'apricornus. 

January.  Clad  all  in  White,  as  the  Earth  looks  with 
the  Snow,  blowing  his  nails ;  in  his  left  arm  a  billet ;  the 
sign  Aquarius  standing  by  his  side. 

February.  Clothed  in  a  dark  Sky-colour,  carrying  in 
his  Right  hand  the  sign  Pisces. 


288  THE  MONTHS. 

The  following  receipt  "  To  dress  up  a  chimney  very 
fine  for  the  summer-time,  as  I  have  done  many,  and  they 
have  been  liked  very  well,"  may  not  be  unprofitable  to 
the  housewives  of  this  century  : — 

"  First,  take  a  pack-thread,  and  fasten  it  even  to  the 
inner  part  of  the  Chimney,  so  high  as  that  you  can  see 
no  higher  as  you  walk  up  and  down  the  House.  You 
must  drive  in  several  Nails  to  hold  up  all  your  work. 
Then  get  good  store  of  old  green  Moss  from  Trees,  and 
melt  an  equal  proportion  of  beeswax  and  rosin  together; 
and,  while  it  is  hot,  dip  the  wrong  ends  of  the  moss  in 
it,  and  presently  clap  it  upon  your  pack-thread,  and  press 
it  down  hard  with  your  hand.  You  must  make  haste, 
else  it  will  cool  before  you  can  fasten  it,  and  then  it  will 
fall  down.  Do  so  all  around  where  the  packthread  goes ; 
and  the  next  row  you  must  join  to  that,  so  that  it  may 
seem  all  in  one :  thus  do  till  you  have  finished  it  down 
to  the  bottom.  Then  take  some  other  kind  of  Moss,  of 
a  whitish  colour  and  stiff,  and  of  several  sorts  or  kinds, 
and  place  that  upon  the  other,  here  and  there  carelessly, 
and  in  some  places  put  a  good  deal,  and  some  a  little ; 
then  any  kind  of  fine  snail-shells,  in  which  the  snails  are 
dead,  and  little  toad-stools,  which  are  very  old,  and  look 
like  velvet,  or  any  other  thing  that  was  old  and  pretty  : 
place  it  here  and  there  as  your  fancy  serves,  and  fasten 
all  with  Wax  and  Rosin.  Then,  for  the  hearth  of  your 
chimney,  you  may  lay  some  Orpan- Sprigs  in  order  all 
over,  and  it  will  grow  as  it  lies ;  and,  according  to  the 
season,  get  what  flowers  you  can,  and  stick  in  as  if  they 
grew,  and  a  few  sprigs  of  Sweet-Brier ;  the  flowers  you 
must  renew  every  week ;  but  the  moss  will  last  all  the 
Summer,  till  it  will  be  time  to  make  a  fire ;  and  the 
orpan  will  last  near  two  Months.  A  Chimney  thus  done 
doth  grace  a  Room  exceedingly." 

One  phrase  in  the  above  should  particularly  recommend 
it  to  such  of  your  female  readers  as,  in  the  nice  language 
of  the  day,  have  done  growing  some  time, — "  little  toad- 


THE  MONTHS.  289 

stools,  etc.,  and  anything  that  is  old  and  pretty."  Was 
ever  antiquity  so  smoothed  over  ?  The  culinary  r"ecipes 
have  nothing  remarkable  in  them,  except  the  costliness 
cf  them.  Everything  (to  the  meanest  meats)  is  sopped 
in  claret,  steeped  in  claret,  basted  with  claret,  as  if  claret 
were  as  cheap  as  ditch-water.  I  remember  Bacon  recom- 
mends opening  a  turf  or  two  in  your  garden  walks,  and 
pouring  into  each  a  bottle  of  claret,  to  recreate  the  sense 
of  smelling,  being  no  less  grateful  than  beneficial.  "We 
hope  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  will  attend  to  this 
in  his  next  reduction  of  French  wines,  that  we  may  once 
more  water  our  gardens  with  right  Bourdeaux.  The 
medical  recipes  are  as  whimsical  as  they  are  cruel.  Our 
ancestors  were  not  at  all  effeminate  on  this  head.  Modern 
sentimentalists  would  shrink  at  a  cock  plucked  and 
bruised  in  a  mortar  alive  to  make  a  cullis,  or  a  live  mole 
baked  in  an  oven  (be  sure  it  be  alive)  to  make  a  powder 
for  consumption.  But  the  whimsicalest  of  all  are  the 
directions  to  servants  (for  this  little  book  is  a  compendium 
of  all  duties) :  the  footman  is  seriously  admonished  not 
to  stand  lolling  against  his  master's  chair  while  he  waits 
at  table;  for  "to  lean  on  a  chair  when  they  wait,  is  a 
particular  favour  shown  to  any  superior  servant,  as  the 
chief  gentleman,  or  the  waiting-woman  when  she  rises 
from  the  table."  Also  he  must  not  "hold  the  plates 
before  his  mouth  to  be  defiled  with  his  breath,  nor  touch 
them  on  the  right  [inner]  side."  Surely  Swift  must  have 
seen  this  little  treatise. 


KEMINISCENCE  OF 
SIR  JEFFEKY  DUNSTAN. 

To  your  account  of  Sir  Jeffery  Dunstan,  in  columna 
829-30  (where,  by  an  unfortunate  erratum,  the  effigies 
of  two  8ir  Jefferys  appear,  when  the  uppermost  figure  is 
clearly  meant  for  Sir  Harry  Dimsdale),  you  may  add  that 
the  writer  of  this  has  frequently  met  him  in  his  latter 
days,  about  1790  or  1791,  returning  in  an  evening,  after 
his  long  day's  itineracy,  to  his  domicile, — a  wretched  shed 
in  the  most  beggarly  purlieu  of  Bethnal  Green,  a  little 
on  this  side  the  Mile-end  Turnpike.  The  lower  figure  in 
that  leaf  most  correctly  describes  his  then  appearance, 
except  that  no  graphic  art  can  convey  an  idea  of  the 
general  squalour  of  it,  and  of  his  bag  (his  constant  con- 
comitant) in  particular.  Whether  it  contained  "old 
wigs  "  at  that  time,  I  know  not ;  but  it  seemed  a  fitter 
repository  for  bones  snatched  out  of  kennels  than  for  any 
part  of  a  gentleman's  dress,  even  at  second-hand. 

The  Ex-member  for  Garrat  was  a  melancholy  instance 
of  a  great  man  whose  popularity  is  worn  out.  He  still 
carried  his  sack;  but  it  seemed  a  part  of  his  identity 
rather  than  an  implement  of  his  profession ;  a  badge  of 
past  grandeur  :  could  anything  have  divested  him  of  that, 
he  would  have  shown  a  "  poor  forked  animal "  indeed. 
My  life  upon  it,  it  contained  no  curls  at  the  time  I  speak 
of.  The  most  decayed  and  spiritless  remnants  of  what 
was  once  a  peruke  would  have  scorned  the  filthy  case ; 
would  absolutely  have  "  burst  its  cerements."  No :  it 


REMINISCENCE  OF  SIR  JEFFERY  DUNSTAN.         291 

was  empty,  or  brought  home  bones,  or  a  few  cinders, 
possibly.  A  strong  odour  of  burnt  bones,  I  remember, 
blended  with  the  scent  of  horse-flesh  seething  into  dog's 
meat,  and  only  relieved  a  little  by  the  breathings  of  a 
few  brick-kilns,  made  up  the  atmosphere  of  the  delicate 
suburban  spot  which  this  great  man  had  chosen  for  the 
last  scene  of  his  earthly  vanities.  The  cry  of  "  old  wigs" 
had  ceased  with  the  possession  of  any  such  fripperies : 
his  sack  might  have  contained  not  unaptly  a  little  mould 
to  scatter  upon  that  grave  to  which  he  was  now  advanc- 
ing ;  but  it  told  of  vacancy  aud  desolation.  His  quips 
were  silent  too,  and  his  brain  was  empty  as  his  sack  :  he 
Blank  along,  and  seemed  to  decline  popular  observation. 
If  a  few  boys  followed  him,  it  seemed  rather  from  habit 
than  any  expectation  of  fun. 

Alas  !  how  changed  from  him, 
The  life  of  humour,  and  the  soul  of  whim, 
Gallant  and  gay  on  Garrat's  hustings  proud  ! 

But  it  is  thus  that  the  world  rewards  its  favourites  in 
decay.  What  faults  he  had,  I  know  not.  I  have  heard 
something  of  a  peccadillo  or  so.  But  some  little  deviation 
from  the  precise  line  of  rectitude  might  have  been  winked 
at  in  so  tortuous  and  stigmatic  a  frama  Poor  Sir  Jeffery ! 
it  were  well  if  some  M.P.'s  in  earnest  had  passed  their 
parliamentary  existence  with  no  more  offences  against 
integrity  than  could  be  laid  to  thy  charge !  A  fair  dis- 
missal was  thy  due,  not  so  unkind  a  degradation ;  some 
little  snug  retreat,  with  a  bit  of  green  before  thine  eyes, 
and  not  a  burial  alive  in  the  fetid  beggaries  of  Bethnal. 
Thou  wouldst  have  ended  thy  days  in  a  manner  more 
appropriate  to  thy  pristine  dignity,  installed  in  munificent 
mockery  (as  in  mock  honours  you  had.  lived), — a  poor 
Knight  of  Windsor ! 

Every  distinct  place  of  public  speaking  demands  an 
oratory  peculiar  to  itself.  The  forensic  fails  within  the 
walls  of  St.  Stephen.  Sir  Jeffery  was  a  living  instance 
of  this ;  for,  in  the  flower  of  his  popularity,  an  attempt 


292        REMINISCENCE  OF  SIR  JEFFERY  DUNSTAN. 

was  made  to  bring  him  out  upon  the  stage  (at  which  of 
the  winter  theatres  I  forget,  but  I  well  remember  the 
anecdote)  in  the  part  of  Doctor  Last.  The  announcement 
drew  a  crowded  house ;  but,  notwithstanding  infinite 
tutoring, — by  Foote  or  Garrick,  I  forget  which, — when 
the  curtain  drew  up,  the  heart  of  Sir  Jeffery  failed,  and 
he  faltered  on,  and  made  nothing  of  his  part,  till  the 
hisses  of  the  house  at  last,  in  veiy  kindness,  dismissed 
him  from  the  boards.  Great  as  his  parliamentary  elo- 
quence had  shown  itself,  brilliantly  as  his  off-hand  sallies 
had  sparkled  on  a  hustings,  they  here  totally  failed  him. 
Perhaps  he  had  an  aversion  to  borrowed  wit,  and,  like 
my  Lord  Foppington,  disdained  to  entertain  himself  (or 
others)  with  the  forced  products  of  another  man's  brain. 
Your  man  of  quality  is  more  diverted  with  the  natural 
sprouts  of  his  own. 


CAPTAIN  STAEKEY. 

(To  the  Editor  of  Hone's  Every-Day  Book.) 

DEAE  SIR, — I  read  your  account  of  this  unfortunate 
being,  and  his  forlorn  piece  of  self-history,  with  that  smile 
of  half-interest  which  the  Annals  of  Insignificance  excite, 
till  I  came  to  where  he  says,  "  I  was  bound  apprentice 
to  Mr.  William  Bird,  an  eminent  writer,  and  teacher  of 
languages  and  mathematics,"  etc.;  when  I  started  as  one 
does  on  the  recognition  of  an  old  acquaintance  in  a  supposed 
stranger.  This,  then,  was  that  Starkey  of  whom  I  have 
heard  my  sister  relate  so  many  pleasing  anecdotes ;  and 
whom,  never  having  seen,  I  yet  seem  almost  to  remember. 
For  nearly  fifty  years,  she  had  lost  all  sight  of  him ;  and, 
behold  !  the  gentle  Usher  of  her  youth,  grown  into  an 
aged  Beggar,  dubbed  with  an  opprobrious  title  to  which 
he  had  no  pretensions  ;  an  object  and  a  May-game  !  To 
what  base  purposes  may  we  not  return  !  What  may 
not  have  been  the  meek  creature's  sufferings, — what  his 
wanderings, — before  he  finally  settled  down  in  the  com- 
parative comfort  of  an  old  Hospitaller  of  the  Almonry  of 
Is  ewca^tle  ]  And  is  poor  Starkey  dead  1 — 

I  was  a  scholar  of  that  "eminent  writer"  that  he 
speaks  of ;  but  Starkey  had  quitted  the  school  about  a 
year  before  I  came  to  it.  Still  the  odour  of  his  merits 
had  left  a  fragrancy  upon  the  recollection  of  the  elder 
pupils.  The  schoolroom  stands  where  it  did,  looking  into 
a  discoloured,  dingy  garden  in  the  passage  leading  from 
Fetter  Lane  into  Bartlett's  Buildings.  It  is  still  a  school, 
though  the  main  prop,  alas !  has  fallen  so  ingloriously ; 


294  CAPTAIN  STARKEY. 

and  bears  a  Latin  inscription  over  the  entrance  in  the 
lane,  which  was  unknown  in  our  humbler  times.  Heaven 
knows  what  "  languages "  were  taught  in  it  then !  I 
am  sure  that  neither  my  sister  nor  myself  brought  any 
out  of  it,  but  a  little  of  our  native  English.  By  "  mathe- 
matics," reader,  must  be  understood  "  ciphering."  It 
was,  in  fact,  a  humble  day-school,  at  which  reading  and 
writing  were  taught  to  us  boys  in  the  morning ;  and  the 
same  slender  erudition  was  communicated  to  the  girls, 
our  sisters,  etc.,  in  the  evening.  Now,  Starkey  presided, 
under  Bird,  over  both  establishments.  In  my  time,  Mr. 
Cook,  now  or  lately  a  respectable  singer  and  performer 
at  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  and  nephew  to  Mr.  Bird,  had 
succeeded  to  him.  I  well  remember  Bird.  He  was  a 
squat,  corpulent,  middle-sized  man,  with  something  of 
the  gentleman  about  him,  and  that  peculiar  mild  tone — 
especially  while  he  was  inflicting  punishment — which  is  so 
much  more  terrible  to  children  than  the  angriest  looks  and 
gestures.  Whippings  were  not  frequent ;  but,  when  they 
took  place,  the  correction  was  performed  in  a  private 
room  adjoining,  where  we  could  only  hear  the  plaints,  but 
saw  nothing.  This  heightened  the  decorum  and  the 
solemnity.  But  the  ordinary  chastisement  was  the  bas- 
tinado, a  stroke  or  two  on  the  palm  with  that  almost 
obsolete  weapon  now, — the  ferule.  A  ferule  was  a  sort 
of  flat  ruler,  widened,  at  the  inflicting  end,  into  a  shape 
resembling  a  pear, — but  nothing  like  so  sweet,  with  a 
delectable  hole  in  the  middle  to  raise  blisters,  like  a 
cupping-glass.  I  have  an  intense  recollection  of  that 
disused  instalment  of  torture,  and  the  malignancy,  in 
proportion  to  the  apparent  mildness,  with  which  its 
strokes  were  applied.  The  idea  of  a  rod  is  accompanied 
with  something  ludicrous ;  but  by  no  process  can  I  look 
back  upon  this  blister-raiser  with  anything  but  unmingled 
horror.  To  make  him  look  more  formidable,— if  a 
pedagogue  had  need  of  these  heightenings, — Bird  wore 
one  of  those  flowered  Indian  gowns  formerly  in  use  with 
schoolmasters,  the  strange  figures  upon  which  we  used 


CAPTAIN  STARKEY.  295 

to  interpret  into  hieroglyphics  of  pain  and  suffering.  But, 
boyish  fears  apart,  Bird,  I  believe,  was,  in  the  main,  a 
humane  and  judicious  master. 

Oh,  how  I  remember  our  legs  wedged  into  those  un- 
comfortable sloping  desks,  where  we  sat  elbowing  each 
other ;  and  the  injunctions  to  attain  a  free  hand,  unattain- 
able in  that  position ;  the  first  copy  I  wrote  after,  with 
its  moral  lesson,  "Art  improves  Nature  ;"  the  still  earlier 
pot-hooks  and  the  hangers,  some  traces  of  which  I  fear 
may  yet  be  apparent  in  this  manuscript ;  the  truant  looks 
side-long  to  the  garden,  which  seemed  a  mockery  of  our 
imprisonment ;  the  prize  for  best  spelling  which  had 
almost  turned  my  head,  and  which,  to  this  day,  I  cannot 
reflect  upon  without  a  vanity,  which  I  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of;  our  little  leaden  inkstands,  not  separately  subsisting, 
but  sunk  into  the  desks ;  the  bright,  punctually-washed 
morning  fingers,  darkening  gradually  with  another  and 
another  ink-spot !  What  a  world  of  little  associated  cir- 
cumstances, pains,  and  pleasures,  mingling  their  quotas 
of  pleasure,  arise  at  the  reading  of  those  few  simple 
words, — "Mr.  William  Bird,  an  eminent  writer,  and 
teacher  of  languages  and  mathematics,  in  Fetter  Lane, 
Holborn !" 

Poor  Starkey,  when  young,  had  that  peculiar  stamp 
of  old-fashionedness  in  his  face  which  makes  it  impossible 
for  a  beholder  to  predicate  any  particular  age  in  the  object. 
You  can  scarce  make  a  guess  between  seventeen  and 
seven -and -thirty.  This  antique  cast  always  seems  to 
promise  ill-luck  and  penury.  Yet  it  seems  he  was  not 
always  the  abject  thing  he  came  to.  My  sister,  who 
well  remembers  him,  can  hardly  forgive  Mr.  Thomas 
Ranson  for  making  an  etching  so  unlike  her  idea  of  him 
when  he  was  a  youthful  teacher  at  Mr.  Bird's  school.  Old 
age  and  poverty — a  life-long  poverty,  she  thinks — coidd 
at  no  time  have  so  effaced  the  marks  of  native  gentility 
which  were  once  so  visible  in  a  face  otherwise  strikingly 
ugly,  thin,  and  care-worn.  From  her  recollections  of 
him,  she  thinks  that  he  would  have  wanted  bread  before 


296  CAPTAIN  STARKEY. 

he  would  have  begged  or  borrowed  a  halfpenny.  "If 
any  of  the  girls,"  she  says,  "  who  were  my  school-fellows, 
should  be  reading,  through  their  aged  spectacles,  tidings 
from  the  dead,  of  their  youthful  friend  Starkey,  they  will 
feel  a  pang,  as  I  do,  at  having  teased  his  gentle  spirit." 
They  were  big  girls,  it  seems — too  old  to  attend  his  in- 
structions with  the  silence  necessary ;  and,  however  old 
age  and  a  long  state  of  beggary  seems  to  have  reduced 
his  writing  faculties  to  a  state  of  imbecility,  in  those 
days  his  language  occasionally  rose  to  the  bold  and  figur- 
ative ;  for,  when  he  was  in  despair  to  stop  their  chatter- 
ing, his  ordinary  phrase  was,  "  Ladies,  if  you  will  not 
hold  your  peace,  not  all  the  powers  in  heaven  can  make 
you."  Once  he  was  missing  for  a  day  or  two  :  he  had 
run  away.  A  little  old  unhappy-looking  man  brought 
him  back, — it  was  his  father, — and  he  did  no  business  in 
the  school  that  day,  but  sat  moping  in  a  corner,  with  his 
hands  before  his  face ;  and  the  girls,  his  tormentors,  in 
pity  for  his  case,  for  the  rest  of  that  day  forbore  to  annoy 
him.  "  I  had  been  there  but  a  few  months,"  adds  she, 
"  when  Starkey,  who  was  the  chief  instructor  of  us  girls, 
communicated  to  us  a  profound  secret, — that  the  tragedy 
of  Cato  was  shortly  to  be  acted  by  the  elder  boys,  and 
that  we  were  to  be  invited  to  the  representation."  That 
Starkey  lent  a  helping  hand  in  fashioning  the  actors,  she 
remembers ;  and,  but  for  his  unfortunate  person,  he  might 
have  had  some  distinguished  part  in  the  scene  to  enact. 
As  it  was,  he  had  the  arduous  task  of  prompter  assigned 
to  him,  and  his  feeble  voice  was  heard  clear  and  distinct, 
repeating  the  text  during  the  whole  performance.  She 
describes  her  recollection  of  the  cast  of  characters,  even 
now,  with  a  relish.  Martia,  by  the  handsome  Edgar 
Hickman,  who  afterwards  went  to  Africa,  and  of  whom 
she  never  afterwards  heard  tidings ;  Lucia,  by  Master 
Walker,  whose  sister  was  her  particular  friend  :  Cato,  by 
John  Hunter,  a  masterly  declaimer,  but  a  plain  boy,  and 
shorter  by  the  head  than  his  two  sons  in  the  scene,  etc. 
In  conclusion,  Starkey  appears  to  have  been  one  of  those 


CAPTAIN  STARKEY.  297 

mild  spirits,  which,  not  originally  deficient  in  understand- 
ing, are  crushed  by  penury  into  dejection  and  feebleness. 
He  might  have  proved  a  useful  adjunct,  if  not  an  ornament, 
to  society,  if  Fortune  had  taken  him  into  a  very  little 
fostering;  but,  wanting  that,  he  became  a  captain, — a 
byword, — and  lived  and  died  a  broken  bulrush. 


THE  ASS. 

ME.  COLLIER,  in  his  "  Poetical  Decameron  "  (Third  Con- 
versation), notices  a  tract  printed  in  1595,  with  the 
author's  initials  only,  A.B.,  entitled  "The  Noblenesse  of 
the  Asse ;  a  work  rare,  learned,  and  excellent."  He  has 
selected  the  following  pretty  passage  from  it :  "  He  (the 
ass)  refuseth  no  burden :  he  goes  whither  he  is  sent, 
without  any  contradiction.  He  lifts  not  his  foote  against 
any  one ;  he  bytes  not ;  he  is  no  fugitive,  nor  malicious 
affected.  He  doth  all  things  in  good  sort,  and  to  his 
liking  that  hath  cause  to  employ  him.  If  strokes  be 
given  him,  he  cares  not  for  them ;  and,  as  our  modern 
poet  singeth, — 

"  'Thou  wouldst  (perhaps)  he  should  become  thy  foe, 
And  to  that  end  dost  beat  him  many  times  : 
He  cares  not  for  himselfe,  much  less  thy  blow.'  " 1 

Certainly  Nature,  foreseeing  the  cruel  usage  which 
this  useful  servant  to  man  should  receive  at  man's  hand, 
did  prudently  in  furnishing  him  with  a  tegument  imper- 
vious to  ordinary  stripes.  The  malice  of  a  child  or  a 
weak  hand  can  make  feeble  impressions  on  him.  His 
back  offers  no  mark  to  a  puny  foeman.  To  a  common 
whip  or  switch  his  hide  presents  an  absolute  insensibility. 
You  might  as  well  pretend  to  scourge  a  schoolboy  with 
a  tough  pair  of  leather  breeches  on.  His  jerkin  is  well 

1  Who  this  modern  poet  was,  says  Mr.  C — ,  is  a  secret  worth 
discovering.  The  woodcut  on  the  title  of  the  Pamphlet  is — an  Ass 
with  a  wreath  of  laurel  round  his  neck. 


THE  ASS.  299 

fortified ;  and  therefore  the  costermongers,  "  between  the 
years  1790  and  1800,"  did  more  politicly  than  piously  in 
lifting  up  a  part  of  his  upper  garment.  I  well  remember 
that  beastly  and  bloody  custom.  I  have  often  longed  to 
see  one  of  those  refiners  in  discipline  himself  at  the  cart's 
tail,  with  just  such  a  convenient  spot  laid  bare  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  the  whipster.  But,  since  Nature  has 
resumed  her  rights,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  this  patient 
creature  does  not  suffer  to  extremities ;  and  that,  to  the 
savages  who  still  belabour  his  poor  carcass  with  their 
blows  (considering  the  sort  of  anvil  they  are  laid  upon), 
he  might  in  some  sort,  if  he  could  speak,  exclaim  with 
the  philosopher,  "  Lay  on :  you  beat  but  upon  the  case 
of  Anaxarchus." 

Contemplating  this  natural  safeguard,  this  fortified 
exterior,  it  is  with  pain  I  view  the  sleek,  foppish,  combed, 
and  curried  person  of  this  animal  as  he  is  dis naturalised 
at  watering-places,  etc.,  where  they  affect  to  make  a 
palfrey  of  him.  Fie  on  all  such  sophistications  !  It  will 
never  do,  Master  Groom.  Something  of  his  honest,  shaggy 
exterior  will  still  peep  up  in  spite  of  you, — his  good, 
rough,  native,  pine-apple  coating.  You  cannot  "refine 
a  scorpion  into  a  fish,  though  you  rinse  it  and  scour  it 
with  ever  so  cleanly  cookery."1 

The  modern  poet  quoted  by  A.B.  proceeds  to  celebrate 
a  virtue  for  which  no  one  to  this  day  had  been  aware 
that  the  ass  was  remarkable  : — 

"  One  other  gift  this  beast  hath  as  his  owne, 
Wherewith  the  rest  could  not  be  furnished ; 
On  man  himself  the  same  was  not  bestowne : 
To  wit, — on  him  is  ne'er  engendered 
The  hateful  vermine  that  doth  teare  the  skin, 
And  to  the  bode  [body]  doth  make  his  passage  in." 

And  truly,  when  one  thinks  on  the  suit  of  impenetrable 

armour  with   which   Nature   (like  Vulcan   to   another 

Achilles)  has  provided  him,  these  subtle  enemies  to  our 

repose  would  have  shown  some  dexterity  in  getting  into 

1  Milton  from  memory. 


300  THE  ASS. 

his  quarters.  As  the  bogs  of  Ireland  by  tradition  expel 
toads  and  reptiles,  he  may  well  defy  these  small  deer 
in  his  fastnesses.  It  seems  the  latter  had  not  arrived 
at  the  exquisite  policy  adopted  by  the  human  vermin 
"between  1790  and  1800." 

But  the  most  singular  and  delightful  gift  of  the  Ass, 
according  to  the  writer  of  this  pamphlet,  is  his  voice, 
the  "goodly,  sweet,  and  continual  brayings"  of  which, 
"whereof  they  forme  a  melodious  and  proportionable 
kinde  of  musicke,"  seem  to  have  affected  him  with  no 
ordinary  pleasure.  "  Nor  thinke  I,"  he  adds,  "  that  any 
of  our  immoderate  musicians  can  deny  but  that  their 
song  is  full  of  exceeding  pleasure  to  be  heard ;  because 
therein  is  to  be  discerned  both  concord,  discord,  singing 
in  the  meane,  the  beginning  to  sing  in  large  compasse, 
then  following  into  rise  and  fall,  the  halfe-note,  whole 
note,  musicke  of  five  voices,  firme  singing  by  four  voices, 
three  together,  or  one  voice  and  a  halfe.  Then  their 
variable  contrarities  amongst  them,  when  one  delivers 
forth  a  long  tenor  or  a  short,  the  pausing  for  time, 
breathing  in  measure,  breaking  the  minim  or  very  least 
moment  of  time.  Last  of  all,  to  heare  the  musicke  of 
five  or  six  voices  chaunged  to  so  many  of  asses  is  amongst 
them  to  heare  a  song  of  world  without  end." 

There  is  no  accounting  for  ears,  or  for  that  laudable 
enthusiasm  with  which  an  author  is  tempted  to  invest  a 
favourite  subject  with  the  most  incompatible  perfections  : 
I  should  otherwise,  for  my  own  taste,  have  been  inclined 
rather  to  have  given  a  place  to  these  extraordinary 
musicians  at  that  banquet  of  nothing-less-than-sweet- 
sounds,  imagined  by  old  Jeremy  Collier  (Essays,  1698, 
part  ii.  on  Music),  where,  after  describing  the  inspiriting 
effects  of  martial  music  in  a  battle,  he  hazards  an  ingeni- 
ous conjecture,  whether  a  sort  of  anti-music  might  not  be 
invented,  which  should  have  quite  the  contrary  effect  of 
"sinking  the  spirits,  shaking  the  nerves,  curdling  the 
blood,  and  inspiring  despair  and  cowardice  and  consterna- 
tion. 'Tis  probable,"  he  says,  "  the  roaring  of  lions,  the 


THE  ASS.  301 

warbling  of  cats  and  screech-owls,  together  with  a  mixture 
of  the  howling  of  dogs,  judiciously  imitated  and  com- 
pounded, might  go  a  great  way  in  this  invention."  The 
dose,  we  confess,  is  pretty  potent,  and  skilfully  enough 
prepared.  But  what  shall  we  say  to  the  Ass  of  Silenus, 
who,  if  we  may  trust  to  classic  lore,  by  his  own  proper 
sounds,  without  thanks  to  cat  or  screech-owl,  dismayed 
and  put  to  rout  a  whole  army  of  giants  1  Here  was  anti- 
music  with  a  vengeance ;  a  whole  Pan-Dis-Harmonicon 
in  a  single  lungs  of  leather  ! 

But  I  keep  you  trifling  too  long  on  this  Asinine 
subject.  I  have  already  passed  the  Pans  Asinorum,  and 
will  desist,  remembering  the  old  pedantic  pun  of  Jem 
Boyer,  my  schoolmaster, — 

"Ass  in  prcesenti  seldom  makes  a  WISE  MAN  in 
futuro." 


IN  EE  SQUIERELS. 

WHAT  is  gone  with  the  Cages  with  the  climbing 
Squirrel,  and  bells  to  them,  which  were  formerly  the 
indispensable  appendage  to  the  outside  of  a  tinman's 
shop,  and  were,  in  fact,  the  only  Live  Signs  1  One,  we 
believe,  still  hangs  out  on  Holborn ;  but  they  are  fast 
vanishing  with  the  good  old  modes  of  our  ancestors. 
They  seem  to  have  been  superseded  by  that  still  more 
ingenious  refinement  of  modern  humanity, — the  tread- 
mill ;  in  which  human  squirrels  still  perform  a  similar 
round  of  ceaseless,  unprogressive  clambering,  which  must 
be  nuts  to  them. 

We  almost  doubt  the  fact  of  the  teeth  of  this  creature 
being  so  purely  orange -coloured  as  Mr.  Ur  ban's  corre- 
spondent gives  out.  One  of  our  old  poets — and  they 
were  pretty  sharp  observers  of  Nature — describes  them 
as  brown.  But  perhaps  the  naturalist  referred  to  meant 
"of  the  colour  of  a  Maltese  Orange,"1  which  is  rather 
more  obfuscated  than  your  fruit  of  Seville  or  St.  Michael's, 
and  may  help  to  reconcile  the  difference.  We  cannot 
Bpeak  from  observation  ;  but  we  remember  at  school 
getting  our  fingers  into  the  orangery  of  one  of  these  little 

1  Fletcher  in  the  "  Faithful  Shepherdess."  The  satyr  offers  to 
Cloriii— 

"Grapes  whose  lusty  blood 
Is  the  learned  poet's  good, — 
Sweeter  yet  did  never  crown 
The  head  of  Bacchus  ;  nuts  more  brown 
Than  the  squirrels'  teeth  that  crack  them." 


IN  RE  SQUIRRELS.  303 

gentry  (not  having  a  due  caution  of  the  traps  set  there), 
and  the  result  proved  sourer  than  lemons.  The  author 
of  the  "  Task  "  somewhere  speaks  of  their  auger  as  being 
"insignificantly  fierce;"  but  we  found  the  demonstration 
of  it  on  this  occasion  quite  as  significant  as  we  desired, 
and  have  not  been  disposed  since  to  look  any  of  these 
"  gift  horses  "  in  the  mouth.  Maiden  aunts  keep  these 
"  small  deer,"  as  they  do  parrots,  to  bite  people's  fingers, 
on  purpose  to  give  them  good  advice  "  not  to  adventure 
so  near  the  cage  another  time."  As  for  their  "six 
quavers  divided  into  three  quavers  and  a  dotted  crotchet," 
I  suppose  they  may  go  into  Jeremy  Bentham's  next 
budget  of  fallacies,  along  with  the  "  melodious  and  pro- 
portionable kinde  of  musicke "  recorded,  in  your  last 
number,  of  another  highly-gifted  animal. 


DEFOE'S  SECONDARY  NOVELS. 

IT  has  happened  not  seldom  that  one  work  of  some 
author  has  so  transcendently  surpassed  in  execution  the 
rest  of  his  compositions,  that  the  world  has  agreed  to  pass 
a  sentence  of  dismissal  upon  the  latter,  and  to  consign 
them  to  total  neglect  and  oblivion.  It  has  done  wisely 
in  this  not  to  suffer  the  contemplation  of  excellences  of 
a  lower  standard  to  abate  or  stand  hi  the  way  of  the 
pleasure  it  has  agreed  to  receive  from  the  masterpiece. 

Again :  it  has  happened,  that  from  no  inferior  merit 
of  execution  in  the  rest,  but  from  superior  good  fortune 
in  the  choice  of  its  subject,  some  single  work  shall  have 
been  suffered  to  eclipse  and  cast  into  shade  the  deserts  of 
its  less  fortunate  brethren.  This  has  been  done  with 
more  or  less  injustice  in  the  case  of  the  popular  allegory 
of  Bunyan,  in  which  the  beautiful  and  scriptural  image 
of  a  pilgrim  or  wayfarer  (we  are  all  such  upon  earth), 
addressing  itself  intelligibly  and  feelingly  to  the  bosoms 
of  all,  has  silenced,  and  made  almost  to  be  forgotten,  the 
more  awful  and  scarcely  less  tender  beauties  of  the  "  Holy 
War  made  by  Shaddai  upon  Diabolus,"  of  the  same  author, 
— a  romance  less  happy  in  its  subject,  but  surely  well 
worthy  of  a  secondary  immortality.  But  in  no  instance 
has  this  excluding  partiality  been  exerted  with  more 
unfairness  than  against  what  may  be  termed  the  secondary 
novels  or  romances  of  Defoe. 

While  all  ages  and  descriptions  of  people  hang  delighted 
over  the  "Adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe,"  and  shall 
continue  to  do  so,  we  trust  while  the  world  lasts,  how 


DEFOE'S  SECONDARY  NOVELS.  305 

fe'w  comparatively  will  bear  to  be  told  that  there  exist 
other  fictitious  narratives  by  the  same  writer, — four  of 
them  at  least  of  no  inferior  interest,  except  what  results 
from  a  less  felicitous  choice  of  situation !  "  Roxana," 
"  Singleton,"  "  Moll  Flanders,"  "  Colonel  Jack,"  are  all 
genuine  offspring  of  the  same  father.  They  bear  the 
veritable  impress  of  Defoe.  An  unpractised  midwife  that 
would  not  swear  to  the  nose,  lip,  forehead,  and  eye  of 
every  one  of  them  !  They  are,  in  their  way,  as  full  of 
incident,  and  some  of  them  every  bit  as  romantic ;  only 
they  want  the  uninhabited  island,  and  the  charm  that 
has  bewitched  the  world,  of  the  striking  solitary  situation. 

But  are  there  no  solitudes  out  of  the  cave  and  the 
desert  1  or  cannot  the  heart  in  the  midst  of  crowds  feel 
frightfully  alone?  Singleton  on  the  world  of  waters, 
prowling  about  with  pirates  less  merciful  than  the  creatures 
of  any  howling  wilderness, — is  he  not  alone,  with  the 
faces  of  men  about  him,  but  without  a  guide  that  can 
conduct  him  through  the  mists  of  educational  and  habitual 
ignorance,  or  a  fellow-heart  that  can  interpret  to  him  the 
new-born  yearnings  and  aspirations  of  unpractised  peni- 
tence ?  Or  when  the  boy  Colonel  Jack,  in  the  loneliness 
of  the  heart  (the  worst  solitude),  goes  to  hide  his  ill- 
purchased  treasure  in  the  hollow  tree  by  night,  and 
miraculously  loses,  and  miraculously  finds  it  again, — 
whom  hath  he  there  to  sympathise  with  him  1  or  of  what 
sort  are  his  associates  1 

The  narrative  manner  of  Defoe  has  a  naturalness  about 
it  beyond  that  of  any  other  novel  or  romance  writer.  His 
fictions  have  all  the  air  of  true  stories.  It  is  impossible 
to  believe,  while  you  are  reading  them,  that  a  real  person 
is  not  narrating  to  you  everywhere  nothing  but  what 
really  happened  to  himself.  To  this  the  extreme  homeli- 
ness of  their  style  mainly  contributes.  We  use  the  word 
in  its  best  and  heartiest  sense, — that  which  comes  home 
to  the  reader.  The  narrators  everywhere  are  chosen  from 
low  life,  or  have  had  their  origin  in  it :  therefore  they  tell 
their  own  tales  (Mr.  Coleridge  has  anticipated  us  in  this 
x 


306  DEFOE'S  SECONDARY  NOVELS. 

remark),  as  persons  in  their  degree  are  observed  to  do, 
with  infinite  repetition,  and  an  overacted  exactness,  lest 
the  hearer  should  not  have  minded,  or  have  forgotten, 
some  things  that  had  been  told  before.  Hence  the 
emphatic  sentences  marked  in  the  good  old  (but  deserted) 
Italic  type ;  and  hence,  too,  the  frequent  interposition  of 
the  reminding  old  colloquial  parenthesis,  "I  say,"  "Mind," 
and  the  like,  when  the  story-teller  repeats  what,  to  a 
practised  reader,  might  appear  to  have  been  sufficiently 
insisted  upon  before :  which  made  an  ingenious  critic 
observe,  that  his  works,  in  this  kind,  were  excellent  read- 
ing for  the  kitchen.  And,  in  truth,  the  heroes  and  heroines 
of  Defoe  can  never  again  hope  to  be  popular  with  a  much 
higher  class  of  readers  than  that  of  the  servant-maid  or 
the  sailor.  Crusoe  keeps  its  rank  only  by  tough  prescrip- 
tion. Singleton,  the  pirate;  Colonel  Jack,  the  thief; 
Moll  Flanders,  both  thief  and  harlot ;  Roxana,  harlot  and 
something  worse, — would  be  startling  ingredients  in  the 
bill  of  fare  of  modern  literary  delicacies.  But,  then, 
what  pirates,  what  thieves,  and  what  harlots,  are  the  thief, 
the  harlot,  and  the  pirate  of  Defoe  !  We  would  not  hesi- 
tate to  say,  that  in  no  other  book  of  fiction,  where  the 
lives  of  such  characters  are  described,  is  guilt  and  delin- 
quency made  less  seductive,  or  the  suffering  made  more 
closely  to  follow  the  commission,  or  the  penitence  more 
earnest  or  more  bleeding,  or  the  intervening  flashes  of 
religious  visitation  upon  the  rude  and  uninstructed  soul 
more  meltingly  and  fearfully  painted.  They,  in  this,  come 
near  to  the  tenderness  of  Bunyan ;  while  the  livelier 
pictures  and  incidents  in  them,  as  in  Hogarth  or  in  Field- 
ing, tend  to  diminish  the  fastidiousness  to  the  concerns 
and  pursuits  of  common  life  which  an  unrestrained  passion 
for  the  ideal  and  the  sentimental  is  in  danger  of  producing. 


KECOLLECTIONS  OF 
A  LATE  EOYAL  ACADEMICIAN. 

WHAT  Apelles  was  to  the  Grecian  Alexander,  the  same 
to  the  Russian  was  the  late  G —  D — .  None  but 
Apelles  might  attempt  the  lineaments  of  the  world's  con- 
queror ;  none  but  our  Academician  could  have  done  justice 
to  the  lines  of  the  Czar  and  his  courtiers.  There  they 
hang,  the  labour  of  ten  plodding  years,  in  an  endless 
gallery,  erected  for  the  nonce,  in  the  heart  of  Imperial 
Petersburgh — eternal  monuments  of  barbarian  taste  sub- 
mitted to  half  civilised  cunning — four  hundred  fierce 
Half-Lengths,  all  male,  and  all  military ;  like  the  pit  in 
a  French  theatre,  or  the  characters  in  Timon  as  it  was 
last  acted,  with  never  a  woman  among  them.  Chaste 
sitters  to  Vandyke,  models  of  grace  and  womanhood ;  and 
thou  Dame  Venetia  Digby,  fairest  among  thy  fair  compeers 
at  Windsor,  hide  your  pure  pale  cheeks,  and  cool  English 
beauties,  before  this  suffocating  horde  of  Scythian  riflers, 
this  male  chaos  !  Your  cold  oaken  frames  shall  wane 
before  the  gorgeous  gildings, 

With  Tartar  faces  throng'd,  and  horrent  uniforms. 

One  emperor  contended  for  the  monopoly  of  the  ancient; 
two  were  competitors  at  once  for  the  pencil  of  the  modern 
Apelles.  The  Russian  carried  it  against  the  Haytian  by 
a  single  length.  And  if  fate,  as  it  was  at  one  time  nearly 
arranged,  had  wafted  D.  to  the  shores  of  Hayti — with 
the  same  complacency,  in  his  art,  with  which  he  persisted 


308  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  ROYAL  ACADEMICIAN. 

in  daubing  in,  day  after  day,  his  frozen  Muscovites,  he 
would  have  sate  down  for  life  to  smutch  in  upon  canvas 
the  faces  of  blubber-lipped  sultanas,  or  the  whole  male 
retinue  of  the  dingy  court  of  Christophe.  For  in  truth 
a  choice  of  subjects  was  the  least  of  D.'s  care.  A  Goddess 
from  Cnidus,  or  from  the  Caffre  coast,  was  equal  to  him ; 
Lot  or  Lot's  wife ;  the  charming  widow  H.,  or  her  late 
husband. 

My  acquaintance  with  D.  was  in  the  outset  of  his 
art,  when  the  graving  tools,  rather  than  the  pencil,  ad- 
ministered to  his  humble  wants.  Those  implements,  as 
is  well  known,  are  not  the  most  favourable  to  the  culti- 
vation of  that  virtue,  which  is  esteemed  next  to  godliness. 
He  might  "  wash  his  hands  in  innocency,"  and  so  meta- 
phorically "approach  an  altar;"  but  his  material  puds 
were  anything  but  fit  to  be  carried  to  church.  By  an 
ingrained  economy  in  soap — if  it  was  not  for  pictorial 
effect  rather — he  would  wash  (on  Sundays)  the  inner 
oval,  or  portrait,  as  it  may  be  termed,  of  his  countenance, 
leaving  the  unwashed  temples  to  form  a  natural  black 
frame  round  the  picture,  in  which  a  dead  white  was  the 
predominant  colour.  This,  with  the  addition  of  green 
spectacles  made  necessary  by  the  impairment,  which  his 
graving  labours  by  day  and  night  (for  he  was  ordinarily 
at  them  for  sixteen  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four)  had 
brought  upon  his  visual  faculties,  gave  him  a  singular 
appearance,  when  he  took  the  air  abroad ;  insomuch, 
that  I  have  seen  a  crowd  of  young  men  and  boys  follow- 
ing him  along  Oxford  Street  with  admiration  not  without 
shouts ;  even  as  the  Youth  of  Rome,  we  read  in  Vasari, 
followed  the  steps  of  Raphael  with  acclamations  for  his 
genius,  and  for  his  beauty,  when  he  proceeded  from  his 
workshop  to  chat  with  Cardinals  and  Popes  at  the 
Vatican. 

The  family  of  D.  were  not  at  this  time  in  affluent 
circumstances.  His  father,  a  clever  artist,  had  outlived 
the  style  of  art  in  which  he  excelled  most  of  his  contem- 
poraries. He,  with  the  father  of  the  celebrated  Morland, 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  ROYAL  ACADEMICIAN.  309 

worked  for  the  shop  of  Carrington  and  Bowles,  which 
exists  still  for  the  poorer  sort  of  caricatures,  on  the  north 
side  of  St.  Paul's  Church  Yard.  They  did  clever  things 
in  colours.  At  an  inn  in  Reading  a  screen  is  still  pre- 
served, full  of  their  labours ;  but  the  separate  portions 
of  either  artist  are  now  undistinguishable.  I  remember 
a  Mother  teaching  her  Child  to  read  (B.  Barton  has  a 
copy  of  it) ;  a  Laundress  washing ;  a  young  Quaker,  a 
beautiful  subject.  But  the  flower  of  their  forgotten  pro- 
ductions hangs  still  at  a  public-house  on  the  left  hand, 
as  thou  arrivest,  reader,  from  the  now  Highgate  archway, 
at  the  foot  of  the  descent  where  Crouch  End  begins,  on 
thy  road  to  green  Hornsey.  Turn  in,  and  look  at  it,  for 
the  sight  is  well  worth  a  cup  of  excusatory  cyder.  In 
the  parlour  to  the  right  you  will  find  it — an  antiquated 
subject — a  damsel  sitting  at  her  breakfast  table  in  a 
gown  of  the  flowered  chintz  of  our  grandmothers,  with  a 
tea-service  before  her  of  the  same  pattern.  The  effect 
is  most  delicate.  Why  have  these  harmonies — these 
agremens — no  place  in  the  works  of  modern  art  ? 

With  such  niceties  in  his  calling  D.  did  not  much 
trouble  his  head,  but,  after  an  ineffectual  experiment  to 
reconcile  his  eye-sight  with  his  occupation,  boldly  quitted 
it,  and  dashed  into  the  beaten  road  of  common -place 
portraiture  in  oil  The  Hopners,  and  the  Lawrences, 
were  his  Vandykes,  and  his  Velasquezes ;  and  if  he  could 
make  anything  like  them,  he  insured  himself  immortality. 
With  such  guides  he  struggled  on  through  laborious 
nights  and  days,  till  he  reached  the  eminence  he  aimed 
at — of  mediocrity.  Having  gained  that  summit,  he  sate 
down  contented.  If  the  features  were  but  cognoscible, 
no  matter  whether  the  flesh  resembled  flesh,  or  oil-skin. 
For  the  thousand  tints — the  grains — which  in  life  diversify 
the  nose,  the  chin,  the  cheek — which  a  Reynolds  can  but 
coarsely  counterfeit — he  cared  nothing  at  all  about  them. 
He  left  such  scrupulosities  to  opticians  and  anatomists. 
If  the  features  were  but  there,  the  character  of  course 
could  not  be  far  off.  A  lucky  hh  which  he  made  in 


310    RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  ROYAL  ACADEMICIAN. 

painting  the  very  dress  of  a  dressy  lady — Mrs.  W — e — , 
whose  handsome  countenance  also,  and  tall  elegance  of 
shape,  were  too  palpable  entirely  to  escape  under  any 
masque  of  oil,  with  which  even  D.  could  overlay  them — 
brought  to  him  at  once  an  influx  of  sitters,  which  almost 
rivalled  the  importunate  calls  upon  Sir  Thomas.  A 
portrait  he  did  soon  after,  of  the  Princess  Charlotte, 
clenched  his  fame.  He  proceeded  Academician.  At 
that  memorable  conjuncture  of  time  it  pleased  the  Allied 
Sovereigns  to  visit  England. 

I  called  upon  D.  to  congratulate  him  upon  a  crisis 
so  doubly  eventful.  His  pleasant  housekeeper  seemed 
embarrassed ;  owned  that  her  master  was  alone.  But 
could  he  be  spoken  with  ?  With  some  importunity  I 
prevailed  upon  her  to  usher  me  into  his  painting-room. 
It  was  in  Newman  Street.  At  his  easel  stood  D.,  with 
an  immense  spread  of  canvas  before  him,  and  by  his  side 
a — live  goose.  I  inquired  into  this  extraordinary  com- 
bination. Under  the  rose  he  informed  me,  that  he  had 
undertaken  to  paint  a  transparency  for  Vauxhall,  against 
an  expected  visit  of  the  Allied  Sovereigns  to  that  place. 
I  smiled  at  an  engagement  so  derogatory  to  his  new-born 
honours ;  but  a  contempt  of  small  gains  was  never  one 
of  D.'s  foibles.  My  eyes  beheld  crude  forms  of  warriors, 
kings,  rising  under  his  brush  upon  this  interminable 
stretch  of  cloth.  The  Wolga,  the  Don,  and  the  Nieper, 
were  there,  or  their  representative  River  Gods;  and 
Father  Thames  clubbed  urns  with  the  Vistula.  Glory 
with  her  dazzling  eagle  was  not  absent,  nor  Fame,  nor 
Victory.  The  shade  of  Rubens  might  have  evoked  the 
mighty  allegories.  But  what  was  the  Goose  ?  He  was 
evidently  sitting  for  a  something. 

D.  at  last  informed  me,  that  having  fixed  upon  a 
group  of  rivers,  he  could  not  introduce  the  Royal  Thames 
without  his  swans.  That  he  had  inquired  the  price  of 
a  live  swan,  and  it  being  more  than  he  was  prepared  to 
give  for  it,  he  had  bargained  with  the  poulterer  for  the 
next  thing  to  it;  adding  significantly,  that  it  would  do 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  ROYAL  ACADEMICIAN.    311 

to  roast,  after  it  had  served  its  turn  to  paint  swans  by. 
Reader,  this  is  a  true  story. 

So  entirely  devoid  of  imagination,  or  any  feeling  for 
his  high  art,  was  this  Painter,  that  for  the  few  historical 
pictures  he  attempted,  any  sitter  might  sit  for  any  char- 
acter. He  took  once  for  a  subject  The  Infant  Hercules. 
Did  he  choose  for  a  model  some  robust  antique?  No. 
He  did  not  even  pilfer  from  Sir  Joshua,  who  was  nearer 
to  his  own  size.  But  from  a  show  he  hired  to  sit  to  him 
a  child  in  years  indeed  (though  no  Infant),  but  in  fact  a 
precocious  Man,  or  human  portent,  that  was  disgustingly 
exhibiting  at  that  period ;  a  thing  to  be  strangled.  From 
this  he  formed  his  Infant  Hercules.  In  a  scriptural  flight 
he  next  attempted  a  Samson  in  the  lap  of  Dalilah.  A 
Dalilah  of  some  sort  was  procurable  for  love  or  money, 
but  who  should  stand  for  the  Jewish  Hercules?  He 
hired  a  tolerably  stout  porter,  with  a  thickish  head  of 
hair,  curling  in  yellowish  locks,  but  lithe — much  like  a 
wig.  And  these  were  the  robust  strengths  of  Samson. 

I  once  was  a  witness  to  a  family  scene  in  his  painting 
closet,  which  I  had  entered  rather  abruptly,  and  but  for 
his  encouragement,  should  as  hastily  have  retreated.  He 
stood  with  displeased  looks  eyeing  a  female  relative — 
whom  I  had  known  under  happier  auspices — that  was 
kneeling  at  his  feet  with  a  baby  in  her  arms,  with  her 
eyes  uplifted  and  suppliant.  Though  I  could  have  pre- 
viously sworn  to  the  virtue  of  Miss ,  yet  casual  slips 

have  been  known.  There  are  such  things  as  families 
disgraced,  where  least  you  would  heve  expected  it.  The 

child  might  be ;  I  had  heard  of  no  wedding — I 

was  the  last  person  to  pry  into  family  secrets — when  D. 
relieved  my  uneasy  cogitations  by  explaining,  that  the 
innocent,  good-humoured  creature  before  me  (such  as  she 
ever  was,  and  is  now  that  she  is  married)  with  a  baby 
borrowed  from  a  public-house,  was  acting  Andromache  to 
his  Ulysses,  for  the  purpose  of  transferring  upon  canvas 
a  tender  situation  from  the  Troades  of  Seneca. 

On  a  subsequent  occasion  I  knocked  at  D.'s  door.     I 


312  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  ROYAL  ACADEMICIAN. 

had  chanced  to  have  been  in  a  dreamy  humour  previously. 
I  am  not  one  that  often  poetises,  but  I  had  been  musing 
— coxcombically  enough  in  the  heart  of  Newman  Street, 
Oxford  Road — upon  Pindus,  and  the  Aonian  Maids.  The 
Lover  of  Daphne  was  in  my  mind — when,  answering  to 
my  summons,  the  door  opened,  and  there  stood  before  me, 
laurel-crowned,  the  God  himself,  unshorn  Apollo.  I  was 
beginning  to  mutter  apologies  to  the  Celestial  Presence — 
•when  on  the  thumb  of  the  right  hand  of  the  Delian  (his 
left  held  the  harp)  I  spied  a  palette,  such  as  painters 
carry,  which  immediately  reconciled  me  to  the  whimsical 
transformation  of  my  old  acquaintance — with  his  own 
face,  certainly  any  other  than  Grecianesque — into  a 
temporary  image  of  the  oracle -giver  of  Delphos.  To 
have  impersonated  the  Ithacan  was  little :  he  had  been 
just  sitting  for  a  God. — It  would  be  no  incurious  inquiry 
to  ascertain  what  the  minimum  of  the  faculty  of  imagina- 
tion, ever  supposed  essential  to  painters  along  with  poets, 
is,  that,  in  these  days  of  complaints  of  want  of  patronage 

towards  the  fine  arts,  suffices  to  dub  a  man  a  R 1 

A n. 

Not  only  had  D.  no  imagination  to  guide  him  in  the 
treatment  of  such  subjects,  but  he  had  no  relish  for  high 
art  in  the  productions  of  the  great  masters.  He  turned 
away  from  them  as  from  something  foreign  and  irrelative 
to  him,  and  his  calling.  He  knew  he  had  neither  part 
nor  portion  in  them.  Cozen  him  into  the  Stafford  or 
the  Angerstein  Gallery,  he  involuntarily  turned  away 
from  the  Baths  of  Diana — the  Four  Ages  of  Guercino — 
the  Lazarus  of  Pioinbo — to  some  pretty  piece  of  modern 
art  that  had  been  inconsistently  thrust  into  the  collection 
through  favour.  On  that  he  would  dwell  and  pore,  blind 
as  the  dead  to  the  delicacies  that  surrounded  him.  There 
he  might  learn  something.  There  he  might  pilfer  a  little. 
There  was  no  grappling  with  Titian  or  Angelo. 

The  narrowness  of  his  domestic  habits  to  the  very 
last,  was  the  consequence  of  his  hard  bringing  up,  and 
unexpected  emergence  into  opulence.  While  rolling  up 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  ROYAL  ACADEMICIAN.     313 

to  the  ears  in  Russian  roubles,  a  penny  was  still  in  his 
eyes  the  same  important  thing,  which  it  had  with  some 
reason  seemed  to  be,  when  a  few  shillings  were  his  daily 
earnings.  When  he  visited  England  a  short  time  before 
his  death,  he  reminded  an  artist  of  a  commission,  which 
he  had  executed  for  him  in  Russia,  the  package  of  which 
was  "  still  unpaid."  At  this  time  he  was  not  unreason- 
ably supposed  to  have  realised  a  sum  little  short  of  hall 
a  million  sterling.  What  became  of  it  was  never  known  ; 
what  gulf,  or  what  Arctic  vorago,  sucked  it  iu,  his 
acquaintance  in  those  parts  have  better  means  of  guess- 
ing, than  his  countrymen.  It  is  certain  that  few  of  the 
latter  were  anything  the  better  for  it. 

It  was  before  he  expatriated  himself,  but  subsequently 
to  his  acquisition  of  pictorial  honours  in  this  country, 
that  he  brought  home  two  of  his  brother  Academicians 
to  dine  with  him.  He  had  given  no  orders  extraordinary 
to  his  housekeeper.  He  trusted,  as  he  always  did,  to  her 
providing.  She  was  a  shrewd  lass,  and  knew,  as  we  say, 
a  bit  of  her  master's  mind. 

It  had  happened  that  on  the  day  before,  D.  passing 
near  Clare  Market  by  one  of  those  open  shambles,  where 
tripe  and  cow-heel  are  exposed  for  sale,  his  eye  was 
arrested  by  the  sight  of  some  tempting  flesh  rolled  up. 
It  is  a  part  of  the  intestines  of  some  animal,  which  my 
olfactory  sensibilities  never  permitted  me  to  stay  long 
enough  to  inquire  the  name  of.  D.  marked  the  curious 
involutions  of  the  unacquainted  luxury ;  the  harmony  of 
its  colours — a  sable  vert — pleased  his  eye ;  and,  warmed 
•with  the  prospect  of  a  new  flavour,  for  a  few  farthings  he 
bore  it  off  in  triumph  to  his  housekeeper.  It  so  happened 
that  his  day's  dinner  was  provided,  so  the  cooking  of  the 
novelty  was  for  that  time  necessarily  suspended. 

Next  day  came.  The  hour  of  dinner  approached.  His 
visitors,  with  no  very  romantic  anticipations,  expected  a 
plain  meal  at  least ;  they  were  prepared  for  no  new 
dainties ;  when,  to  the  astonishment  of  them,  and  almost 
of  D.  himself,  the  purchase  of  the  preceding  day  was 


314    RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  ROYAL  ACADEMICIAN. 

served  up  piping  hot — the  cook  declaring,  that  she  did 
not  know  well  what  it  was,  for  "  her  master  always 
marketed."  His  guests  were  not  so  happy  in  their 
ignorance.  They  kept  dogs. 

I  will  do  D.  the  justice  to  say,  that  on  such  occasions 
he  took  what  happened  in  the  best  humour  possible.  He 
had  no  false  modesty — though  I  have  generally  observed, 
that  persons,  who  are  quite  deficient  in  that  mauvaise 
honte,  are  seldon  over-troubled  with  the  quality  itself,  of 
which  it  is  the  counterfeit. 

By  what  arts,  with  his  pretensions,  D.  contrived  to 
wriggle  himself  into  a  seat  in  the  Academy,  I  am  not 
acquainted  enough  with  the  intrigues  of  that  body  (more 
involved  than  those  of  an  Italian  conclave)  to  pronounce. 
It  is  certain,  that  neither  for  love  to  him,  nor  out  of  any 
respects  to  his  talents,  did  they  elect  him.  Individually 
he  was  obnoxious  to  them  all.  I  have  heard  that,  in  his 
passion  for  attaining  this  object,  he  went  so  far  as  to  go 
down  upon  his  knees  to  some  of  the  members,  whom  he 
thought  least  favourable,  and  beg  their  suffrage  with 
many  tears. 

But  death,  which  extends  the  measure  of  a  man's 
stature  to  appearance ;  and  wealth,  which  men  worship 
in  life  and  death,  which  makes  giants  of  punies,  and 
enbalms  insignificance ;  called  around  the  exequies  of  this 
pigmy  Painter  the  rank,  the  riches,  the  fashion  of  the 
world.  By  Academic  hands  his  pall  was  borne ;  by  the 
carriages  of  nobles  of  the  land,  and  of  ambassadors  from 
foreign  powers,  his  bier  was  followed  ;  and  St.  Paul's 
(0  worthy  casket  for  the  shrine  of  such  a  Zeuxis)  now 

holds — ALL  THAT  WAS  MORTAL  OF  G.  D. 


REMARKABLE  CORRESPONDENT. 

(To  the  Editor  of  the  Every-Day  Book.) 

SIE — I  am  the  youngest  of  Three  hundred  and  sixty-six 
brethren — there  are  no  fewer  of  us — who  have  the  honour, 
in  the  words  of  the  good  old  song,  to  call  the  Sun  our 
Dad.  You  have  done  the  rest  of  our  family  the  favour 
of  bestowing  an  especial  compliment  upon  each  member 
of  it  individually — I  mean  as  far  as  you  have  gone  :  for 
it  will  take  you  some  time  before  you  can  make  your  bow 
all  round — and  I  have  no  reason  to  think  it  is  your  inten- 
tion to  neglect  any  of  us  but  poor  Me.  Some  you  have 
hung  round  with  flowers  ;  others  you  have  made  fine  with 
martyrs'  palms  and  saintly  garlands.  The  most  insignifi- 
cant of  us  you  have  sent  away  pleased  with  some  fitting 
apologue  or  pertinent  story.  What  have  I  done  that  you 
dismiss  me  without  mark  or  attribute  1  What  though  I 
make  my  public  appearance  seldonier  than  the  rest  of  my 
brethren?  I  thought  that  angels'  visits  had  been  ac- 
counted the  more  precious  for  their  very  rarity.  Reserve 
was  always  looked  upon  as  dignified.  I  am  seen  but 
once  for  four  times  that  my  brethren  obtrude  themselves ; 
making  their  presence  cheap  and  contemptible  in  com- 
parison with  the  state  which  I  keep. 

Am  I  not  a  Day  (when  I  do  come)  to  all  purposes,  as 
much  as  any  of  them.  Decompose  me,  anatomise  me ; 
you  will  find  that  I  am  constituted  like  the  rest.  Divide 
me  into  twenty-four,  and  you  will  find  that  I  cut  up  into 
as  many  goodly  hours  (or  main  limbs)  as  the  rest.  I  too 


316  REMARKABLE  CORRESPONDENT. 

have  my  arteries  and  pulses,  which  are  the  minutes  and 
the  seconds. 

It  is  hard  to  be  dis-familied  thus,  like  Cinderella  in  her 
rags  and  ashes,  while  her  sisters  flaunted  it  about  in 
cherry-coloured  ribbons  and  favours.  My  brethren,  for- 
sooth, are  to  be  dubbed ;  one  Saint  Day ;  another  Pope 
Day ;  a  third  Bishop  Day ;  the  least  of  them  is  Squire 
Day,  or  Mr.  Day,  while  I  am — plain  Day.  Our  house, 
Sir,  is  a  very  ancient  one,  and  the  least  of  us  is  too  proud 
to  put  up  with  an  indignity.  What  though  I  am  but  a 
younger  brother  in  some  sense — for  the  youngest  of  my 
brethren  is  by  some  thousand  years  my  senior — yet  I 
bid  fair  to  inherit  as  long  as  any  of  them,  while  I  have 
the  Calendar  to  show ;  which,  you  must  understand,  is 
our  Title  Deeds. 

Not  content  with  slurring  me  over  with  a  bare  and 
naked  acknowledgment  of  my  occasional  visitation  in 
prose,  you  have  done  your  best  to  deprive  me  of  my 
verse  honours.  In  column  310  of  your  Book,  you  quote 
an  antique  scroll,  leaving  out  the  last  couplet,  as  if  on 
purpose  to  affront  me.  "  Thirty  days  hath  September  " 
— so  you  transcribe  very  faithfully  for  four  lines,  and 
most  invidiously  suppress  the  exceptive  clause  : — 

"  Except  in  Leap  Year,  that's  the  time 
When  February's  days  hath  twenty  and ." 

I  need  not  set  down  the  rhyme  which  should  follow ;  I 
dare  say  you  know  it  very  well,  though  you  were  pleased 
to  leave  it  out.  These  indignities  demand  reparation. 
While  you  have  time  it  will  be  well  for  you  to  make  the 
amende  honorable.  Rausack  your  stories,  learned  Sir, 
I  pray  of  you,  for  some  attribute,  biographical,  anec- 
dotical,  or  floral,  to  invest  me  with.  Did  nobody  die, 
or  nobody  flourish — was  nobody  born — upon  any  of  my 
periodical  visits  to  this  globe1?  Does  the  world  stand 
still  as  often  as  I  vouchsafe  to  appear  1  Am  I  a  blank 
in  the  Almanac  ?  Alms  for  oblivion  ]  If  you  don't  find 
a  flower  at  least  to  grace  me  with  (a  Forget-Me-Nofc 


REMARKABLE  CORRESPONDENT.  317 

would  cheer  me  in  my  present  obscurity),  I  shall  prove 
the  worst  day  to  you  you  ever  saw  in  your  life  :  and  your 
work,  instead  of  the  title  it  now  vaunts,  must  be  content 
(every  fourth  year  at  least)  to  go  by  the  lame  appcll  ition 
of,  Th^  Every-Dny-but-one-Book. 

Yours,  as  you  treat  me, 

TWENTY-NINTH  OF  FEBRUARY. 


THE  HUMBLE  PETITION  OF  AN 
UNFORTUNATE  DAY. 

(To  the  Editor  of  the  Every -Day  Book.) 

SIR — I  <"m  a  poor  wronged  Day.  I  appeal  to  you  as  the 
general  patron  of  the  family  of  the  Days.  The  candour 
with  which  you  attended  to  the  expostulations  of  a  poor 
relative  of  ours — a  sort  of  cousin  thrice  removed1 — en- 
courages me  to  hope  that  you  will  listen  to  the  complaint 
of  a  Day  of  rather  more  consequence.  I  am  the  Day, 
Sir,  upon  which  it  pleased  the  course  of  Nature  that  your 
Gracious  Sovereign  should  be  born.  As  such,  before  his 
accession,  I  was  always  observed  and  honoured.  But 
since  that  happy  event,  in  which  naturally  none  had  a 
greater  interest  than  myself,  a  flaw  has  been  discovered 
in  my  title.  My  lustre  has  been  eclipsed,  and — to  use 
the  words  of  one  of  your  own  poets — 

"  I  fade  into  the  light  of  common  Day  I9 

It  seems  that  about  that  time  an  Impostor  crept  into 
Court,  who  has  the  effrontery  to  usurp  my  honours,  and 
to  style  herself  the  King's  Birthday,  upon  some  shallow 
pretence,  that,  being  St.  George's  Day,  she  must  needs 
be  King  George's  Day  also.  All  Saints'  Day  we  have 
heai'd  of,  and  All  Semis'  Day  we  are  willing  to  admit; 
but  does  it  follow  that  this  foolish  Twenty-third  of  April 
must  be  All  Georges'  Day,  and  enjoy  a  monopoly  of  the 
whole  name,  from  George  of  Cappadocia  to  George  of 
Leyden,  and  from  George-a-Green  down  to  George  Dyer  ] 
1  Twenty-ninth  day  of  February. 


HUMBLE  PETITION  OF  AN  UNFORTUNATE  DAY.     319 

It  looks  a  little  oddly  that  I  was  discarded  not  long 
after  the  discussions  of  a  set  of  men  and  measures,  with 
whom  I  have  nothing  in  common.  I  hope  no  whisperer 
has  insinuated  into  the  ears  of  Royalty,  as  if  I  were  any- 
thing whiggishly  inclined,  which,  in  my  heart  I  abhor, 
all  these  kinds  of  Revolutions,  by  which  I  am  sure  to  be 
the  greatest  sufferer. 

I  wonder  my  shameless  rival  can  have  the  face  to  let 
the  Tower  and  Park  guns  proclaim  so  many  big  thunder- 
ing fibs  as  they  do  upon  her  Anniversary — making  your 
Sovereign  to  be  older  than  he  really  is  by  an  hundred 
and  odd  days,  which  is  no  great  compliment,  one  would 
think.  Consider  if  this  precedent  for  ante -dating  of 
Births  should  become  general,  what  confusion  it  must 
make  in  the  Parish  Registers ;  what  crowds  of  young 
heirs  we  should  have  coming  of  age  before  they  are  one- 
and-twenty,  with  numberless  similar  grievances.  If  these 
chops  and  changes  are  suffered,  we  shall  have  Lord 
Mayor's  Day  eating  her  custard  unauthentically  in  May, 
and  Guy  Faux  preposterously  blazing  twice  over  in  the 
Dog  Days. 

I  humbly  submit  that  it  is  not  within  the  prerogatives 
of  Royalty  itself  to  be  born  twice  over.  We  have  read 
of  the  supposititious  births  of  princes,  but  where  are  the 
evidences  of  this  first  birth  1  Why  are  not  the  nurses 
in  attendance,  the  midwife,  etc.,  produced  ? — the  silly 
story  has  not  so  much  as  a  Waraiing-pan  to  support  it. 

My  legal  advisers,  to  comfort  me,  tell  me  that  I  have 
the  right  on  my  side ;  I  am  the  true  IBirih-Day,  and  the 
other  Day  is  only  kept.  But  what  consolation  is  this  to 
me,  as  long  as  this  naughty-kept-creature  keeps  me  out 
of  my  dues  and  privileges  1 

Pray  take  my  unfortunate  case  into  your  considera* 
tirm,  and  see  that  I  am  restored  to  my  lawful  Rejoicings, 
Firings,  Bon-firings,  Illuminations,  etc. 

And  your  Petitioner  shall  ever  pray. 

TWELFTH  DAY  OF  AUGUST. 


MES.  GILPIN  HIDING  TO  EDMONTON. 

Then  Mrs.  Gilpin  sweetly  said 

Unto  her  children  three, 
"  I'll  clamber  o'er  this  stile  so  high, 

And  you'll  climb  after  me." 
But  having  climbed  unto  the  top, 

She  could  no  further  go  : 
But  sate  to  every  passer  by 

A  spectacle  and  show  : 
Who  said  "Your  spouse  and  you  this  day 

Will  show  your  horsemanship  ; 
And  if  you  stay  till  he  comes  back, 

Your  horse  will  need  no  whip. " 

THE  sketch  here  engraved  (probably  from  the  poet's 
friend,  Romney),  was  found  with  the  above  three  stanzas 
in  the  handwriting  of  Cowper,  among  the  papers  of  the 
late  Mrs.  Unwin.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  no  more 
was  found  of  this  little  Episode,  as  it  evidently  was 
intended  to  be,  in  the  "Diverting  History  of  Johnny 
Gilpin."  It  is  to  be  supposed  that  Mrs.  Gilpin,  in  the 
interval  between  dinner  and  tea,  finding  the  time  to 
hang  upon  her  hands,  during  her  husband's  involuntary 
excursion,  rambled  out  with  the  children  into  the  fields 
at  the  back  of  the  Bell  (as  what  could  be  more  natural  ?) ; 
and  at  one  of  these  high  awkward  stiles,  for  which 
Edmonton  is  so  proverbially  famed,  the  embarrassment 
represented,  so  mystifying  to  a  substantial  City  madam, 
might  have  happened ;  a  predicament  which  leaves  her 
in  a  state  which  is  the  very  Antipodes  to  that  of  her 
too -locomotive  husband.  In  fact,  she  rides  a  restive 
horse.  Now  I  talk  of  Edmonton  stiles,  I  must  speak  a 


MRS.   GILPIN  RIDING  TO  EDMONTON.  321 

little  about  those  of  Enfield,  its  next  neighbour,  which 
are  so  ingeniously  contrived — every  rising  bar  to  the  top 
becoming  more  protuberant  than  the  one  under  it — that 
it  is  impossible  for  any  Christian  climber  to  get  over 
without  bruising  his  (or  her)  shins  as  many  times  as 
there  are  bars.  These  inhospitable  invitations  to  a  flayed 
skin  are  planted  so  thickly  too,  and  are  so  troublesomely 
importunate  at  every  little  paddock  here,  that  this,  with 
more  propriety  than  Thebes  of  old,  might  be  entitled 
Hecatompolis  :  the  Town  of  the  Hundred  Gates  or  Stiles. 

A  SOJOURNER  AT  ENFIELD. 
July  16,  1827. 


SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

THERE  is  a  Saturday  night — I  speak  not  to  the  admirers 
of  Burns — erotically  or  theologically  considered;  HIS  of 
the  "  Cotter's  "  may  be  a  very  charming  picture,  granting 
it  to  be  but  half  true.  Nor  speak  I  now  of  the  Saturday 
Night  at  Sea,  which  Dibdin  hath  dressed  up  with  a  gusto 
more  poignant  to  the  mere  nautical  palate  of  un-Calvinised 
South  Britons.  Nor  that  it  is  marketing  night  with  the 
pretty  tripping  servant-maids  all  over  London,  who  with 
judicious  and  economic  eye,  select  the  white  and  well- 
blown  fillet,  that  the  blue-aproned  contunder  of  the  calf 
can  safely  recommend  as  "  prime  veal,"  and  which  they 
are  to  be  sure  not  to  over-brown  on  the  morrow.  Nor 
speak  I  of  the  hard-handed  Artisan,  who  on  this  night 
receives  the  pittance  which  is  to  furnish  the  neat  Sab- 
batical dinner — not  always  reserved  with  Judaical  rigour 
for  that  laudable  purpose,  but  broken  in  upon,  perchance, 
by  inviting  pot  of  ale,  satisfactory  to  the  present  orifice. 
These  are  alleviatory,  care  -  consoling.  But  the  Heb- 
domadal Finale  which  I  contemplate  hath  neither  comfort 
nor  alleviation  in  it ;  I  pronounce  it,  from  memory, 
altogether  punitive,  and  to  be  abhorred.  It  is — Saturday 
Night  to  the  School-boy  ! 

Cleanliness,  saith  some  sage  man,  is  next  to  Godliness. 
It  may  be ;  but  how  it  came  to  sit  so  very  near,  is  the 
marvel.  Methinks  some  of  the  more  human  virtues 
might  have  put  in  for  a  place  before  it.  Justice — 
Humanity  —  Temperance  —  are  positive  qualities;  the 
courtesies  and  little  civil  offices  of  life,  had  I  been  Master 


SATURDAY  NIGHT.  323 

of  the  Ceremonies  to  that  Court,  should  have  sate  above 
the  salt  in  preference  to  a  mere  negation.  I  confess  there 
is  something  wonderfully  refreshing,  in  warm  countries, 
in  the  act  of  ablution.  Those  Mahometan  washings — 
how  cool  to  the  imagination !  but  in  all  these  supersti- 
tions, the  action  itself,  if  not  the  duty,  is  voluntary.  But 
to  be  washed  perforce ;  to  have  a  detestable  flannel  rag 
soaked  in  hot  water,  and  redolent  of  the  very  coarsest 
coarse  soap,  ingrained  with  hard  beads  for  torment,  thrust 
into  your  mouth,  eyes,  nostrils — positively  Burking  you, 
under  pretence  of  cleansing — substituting  soap  for  dirt, 
the  worst  dirt  of  the  two — making  your  poor  red  eyes 
smart  all  night,  that  they  might  look  out  brighter  on 
the  Sabbath  morn  (for  their  clearness  was  the  effect  of 
pain  more  than  cleanliness),  could  this  be  true  religion  ? 

The  tender  mercies  of  the  wicked  are  cruel.  I  am 
always  disposed  to  add,  so  are  those  of  Grandmothers. 
Aline — the  Print  has  made  her  look  rather  too  young — 
had  never-failing  pretexts  of  tormenting  children  for  their 
good.  I  was  a  chit  then ;  and  I  well  remember  when  a 
fly  had  got  into  a  corner  of  my  eye,  and  I  was  complain- 
ing of  it  to  her,  the  old  lady  deliberately  pounded  two 
ounces  or  more  of  the  finest  loaf  sugar  that  could  be  got, 
and  making  me  hold  open  the  eye  as  wide  as  I  could 
(all  innocent  of  her  purpose),  she  blew  from  delicate  white 
paper,  with  a  full  breath,  the  whole  saccharine  contents 
into  the  part  afflicted,  saying,  "  There,^now  the  fly  is 
out !"  'Twas  most  true :  a  legion  of  blue-bottles,  with 
the  prince  of  flies  at  their  head,  must  have  dislodged 
with  the  torrent  and  deluge  of  tears  which  followed.  I 
kept  my  own  counsel,  and  my  fly  in  my  eye  when  I  had 
got  one,  in  future,  without  troubling  her  dulcet  applica- 
tions for  the  remedy.  Then  her  medicine  case  was  a 
perfect  magazine  of  tortures  for  infants.  She  seemed  to 
have  no  notion  of  the  comparatively  tender  drenches 
which  young  internals  require :  her  potions  were  any- 
thing but  milk  for  babes.  Then  her  sewing  up  of  a  cut 
finger — pricking  a  whitloe  before  it  was  ripe,  because  she 


324  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

could  not  see  well,  with  the  aggravation  of  the  pitying 
tone  she  did  it  in  ! 

But  of  all  her  nostrums  (rest  her  soul !),  nothing  came 
up  to  the  Saturday  Night's  flannel,  that  rude  fragment 
of  a  Witney  blanket  (Wales  spins  none  so  coarse),  thrust 
into  the  corners  of  a  weak  child's  eye  with  soap  that 
might  have  absterged  an  Ethiop,  whitened  the  hands  of 
Duncan's  She-murderer,  and  scoured  away  Original  Sin 
itself.  A  faint  image  of  my  penance  you  see  in  the 
Print — but  the  Artist  has  sunk  the  flannel — the  Age, 
I  suppose,  is  too  nice  to  bear  it :  and  he  has  faintly 
shadowed  the  expostulatory  suspension  of  the  razor-strap 
in  the  hand  of  my  Grandfather,  when  my  pains  and 
clamours  had  waxed  intolerable.  Peace  to  the  Shades  of 
them  both  !  And  if  their  well-meaning  souls  had  need 
of  cleansing  when  they  quitted  earth,  may  the  process  of 
it  have  been  milder  than  that  of  my  old  Purgatorial 
Saturday  Night's  path  to  the  Sabbatical  rest  of  the 
morrow !  NEPOS. 


THOUGHTS  ON  PEESENTS  OF  GAME,  &c. 

"  WE  love  to  have  our  friend  in  the  country  sitting  thus 
at  our  table  by  proxy  ;  to  apprehend  his  presence  (though 
a  hundred  miles  may  be  between  us)  by  a  turkey,  whose 
goodly  aspect  reflects  to  us  his  '  plump  corpusculum ;'  to 
taste  him  in  grouse  or  woodcock ;  to  feel  him  gliding 
down  in  the  toast  peculiar  to  the  latter ;  to  concorporate 
him  in  a  slice  of  Canterbury  brawn.  This  is  indeed  to 
have  him  within  ourselves ;  to  know  him  intimately ; 
such  participation  is  methinks  unitive,  as  the  old  theo- 
logians phrase  it." — Last  Essays  of  Elia. 

11  Elia  presents  his  acknowledgments  to  his  '  Corres- 
pondent Unknown,'  for  a  basket  of  prodigiously  fine 
game.  He  takes  for  granted  that  so  amiable  a  character 
must  be  a  reader  of  the  Athenaeum,  else  he  had  meditated 
a  notice  in  the  Times.  Now  if  this  friend  had  consulted 
the  Delphic  oracle  for  a  present  suited  to  the  palate  of 
Elia,  he  could  not  have  hit  upon  a  morsel  so  acceptable. 
The  birds  he  is  barely  thankful  for ;  pheasants  are  poor 
foivls  disguised  in  fine  feathers ;  but  a  liare  roasted  hard 
and  brown,  with  gravy  and  melted  butter ! — Old  Mr. 
Chambers,  the  sensible  clergyman  in  Warwickshire,  whose 
son's  acquaintance  has  made  many  hours  happy  in  the 
life  of  Elia,  used  to  allow  a  pound  of  Epping  to  every 
hare.  Perhaps  that  was  over-doing  it.  But,  in  spite  of 
the  note  of  Philomel,  who,  like  some  fine  poets,  that 
think  no  scorn  to  adopt  plagiarisms  from  an  humble 
brother,  reiterates  every  Spring  her  cuckoo  cry  of  'Jug, 
Jug,  Jug,'  Elia  pronounces  that  a  hare,  to  be  truly 


326        THOUGHTS  ON  PRESENTS  OF  GAME,   ETC. 

palated,  must  be  roasted.  Jugging  sophisticates  her. 
In  our  way  it  eats  so  'crips,'  as  Mrs.  Minikin  says. 
Time  was,  when  Elia  was  not  arrived  at  his  taste,  that 
he  preferred  to  all  luxuries  a  roasted  pig.  But  he  dis- 
claims all  such  green-sickness  appetites  in  future,  though 
he  hath  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  many  a  delicacy 
in  that  kind  from  correspondents — good,  but  mistaken 
men — in  consequence  of  their  erroneous  supposition  that 
he  had  carried  up  into  mature  life  the  prepossessions  of 
childhood.  From  the  worthy  Vicar  of  Enfield  he  acknow- 
ledges a  tithe  contribution  of  extraordinary  sapor.  The 
ancients  must  have  loved  hares;  else  why  adopt  the 
word  lepores  (obviously  from  lepus)  but  for  some  subtle 
analogy  between  the  delicate  flavour  of  the  latter  and 
the  finer  relishes  of  wit  in  what  we  most  poorly  translate 
pleasantries.  The  fine  madnesses  of  the  poet  are  the 
very  decoction  of  his  diet.  Thence  is  he  hare-brained. 
Harum-scarum  is  a  libellous  unfounded  phrase,  of  modern 
usage.  'Tis  true  the  hare  is  the  most  circumspect  of 
animals,  sleeping  with  her  eye  open.  Her  ears,  ever 
erect,  keep  them  in  that  wholesome  exercise  which  con- 
duces them  to  form  the  very  tit-bit  of  the  admirers  of 
this  noble  animal.  Noble  will  I  call  her,  in  spite  of  her 
detractors,  who  from  occasional  demonstrations  of  the 
principle  of  self-preservation  (common  to  all  animals), 
infer  in  her  a  defect  of  heroism.  Half  a  hundred  horse- 
men, with  thrice  the  number  of  dogs,  scour  the  country 
in  pursuit  of  puss  across  three  counties ;  and  because 
the  well-flavoured  beast,  weighing  the  odds,  is  willing  to 
evade  the  hue  and  cry  (with  her  delicate  ears  shrinking 
perchance  from  discord),  comes  the  grave  naturalist, 
Linna3us  perchance,  or  Buffon,  and  gravely  sets  down 
the  hare  as  a  timid  animal.  Why  Achilles,  or  Bully 
Dawson,  would  have  declined  the  preposterous  combat. 

"  In  fact,  how  light  of  digestion  we  feel  after  a  hare ! 
How  tender  its  processes  after  swallowing  !  What  chyle 
it  promotes  !  How  ethereal !  as  if  its  living  celerity  were 
a  type  of  its  nimble  coursing  through  the  animal  juices. 


THOUGHTS  ON  PRESENTS  OF  GAME,    STC.        327 

The  notice  might  be  longer.  It  is  intended  less  as  a 
Natural  History  of  the  Hare  than  a  cursory  thanks  to 
the  country  'good  Unknown.'  The  hare  has  many 
friends,  but  none  siucerer  than  ELI  A.." 

Nov.  30,  1834. 


A  POPULAR  FALLACY, 
THAT  A  DEFORMED  PERSON  IS  A  LORD. 

AFTER  a  careful  perusal  of  the  most  approved  works  that 
treat  of  nobility,  and  of  its  origin  in  these  realms  in 
particular,  we  are  left  very  much  in  the  dark  as  to  the 
original  patent  in  which  this  branch  of  it  is  recognised. 
Neither  Camden  in  his  "  Etymologie  and  Original  of 
Barons,"  nor  Dugdale  in  his  "  Baronage  of  England," 
nor  Selden  (a  more  exact  and  laborious  inquirer  than 
either)  in  his  "  Titles  of  Honour,"  affords  a  glimpse  of 
satisfaction  upon  the  subject.  There  is  an  heraldic  term, 
indeed,  which  seems  to  imply  gentility,  and  the  right  to 
coat-armour  (but  nothing  further),  in  persons  thus  quali- 
fied. But  the  sinister  bend  is  more  probably  interpreted 
by  the  best  writers  on  this  science,  of  some  irregularity 
of  birth  than  of  bodily  conformation.  Nobility  is  either 
hereditary  or  by  creation,  commonly  called  patent.  Of 
the  former  kind,  the  title  in  question  cannot  be,  seeing 
that  the  notion  of  it  is  limited  to  a  personal  distinction 
which  does  not  necessarily  follow  in  the  blood.  Honours 
of  this  nature,  as  Mr.  Anstey  very  well  observes,  descend, 
moreover,  in  a  right  line.  It  must  be  by  patent,  then, 
if  any  thing.  But  who  can  show  it  1  How  comes  it  to 
be  dormant  1  Under  what  king's  reign  is  it  patented  ? 
Among  the  grounds  of  nobility  cited  by  the  learned  Mr. 
Ashmole,  after  "  Services  in  the  Field  or  in  the  Council 
Chamber,"  he  judiciously  sets  down  "  Honours  conferred 
by  the  sovereign  out  of  mere  benevolence,  or  as  favouring 


A  POPULAR  FALLACY.  329 

one  subject  rather  than  another  for  some  likeness  or  con- 
formity observed  (or  but  supposed)  in  him  to  the  royal 
nature,"  and  instances  the  graces  showered  upon  Charles 
Brandon,  who,  "  in  his  goodly  person  being  thought  not 
a  little  to  favour  the  port  and  bearing  of  the  king's  own 
majesty,  was  by  that  sovereign,  King  Henry  the  Eighth, 
for  some  or  one  of  these  respects,  highly  promoted  and 
preferred."  Here,  if  anywhere,  we  thought  we  had  dis- 
covered a  clue  to  our  researches.  But  after  a  painful 
investigation  of  the  rolls  and  records  under  the  reign  of 
Richard  the  Third,  or  "  Richard  Crouchback,"  as  he  is 
more  usually  designated  in  the  chronicles, — from  a  tra- 
ditionary stoop  or  gibbosity  in  that  part, — we  do  not  find 
that  that  monarch  conferred  any  such  lordships  as  are 
here  pretended,  upon  any  subject  or  subjects,  on  a  simple 
plea  of  "conformity"  in  that  respect  to  the  "royal 
nature."  The  posture  of  affairs,  in  those  tumultuous 
times  preceding  the  battle  of  Bosworth,  possibly  left  him 
at  no  leisure  to  attend  to  such  niceties.  Further  than 
his  reign  we  have  not  extended  our  inquiries,  the  kings 
of  England  who  preceded  or  followed  him  being  generally 
described  by  historians  to  have  been  of  straight  and  clean 
limbs,  the  "  natural  derivative,"  says  Daniel,1  "  of  high 
blood,  if  not  its  primitive  recommendation  to  such  en- 
noblement, as  denoting  strength  and  martial  prowess, — 
the  qualities  set  most  by  in  that  fighting  age."  Another 
motive,  which  inclines  us  to  scruple  the  validity  of  this 
claim,  is  the  remarkable  fact,  that  none  of  the  persons  in 
whom  the  right  is  supposed  to  be  vested  do  ever  insist 
upon  it  themselves.  There  is  no  instance  of  any  of  them 
"  suing  his  patent,"  as  the  law-books  call  it ;  much  less 
of  his  having  actually  stepped  up  into  his  proper  seat, 
as,  so  qualified,  we  might  expect  that  some  of  them  would 
have  had  the  spirit  to  do,  in  the  House  of  Lords.  On 
the  contrary,  it  seems  to  be  a  distinction  thrust  upon 
them.  "  Their  title  of  '  lord,'  "  says  one  of  their  own 
body,  speaking  of  the  common  people,  "  I  never  much 
1  History  of  England,  Temporibus  Edwardi  Primi  et  sejuentibus. 


330  A  POPULAR  FALLACY. 

valued,  and  now  I  entirely  despise ;  and  yet  they  will 
force  it  upon  me  as  an  honour  which  they  have  a  right 
to  bestow,  and  which  I  have  none  to  refuse."1  Upon  a 
dispassionate  review  of  the  subject,  we  are  disposed  to 
believe  that  there  is  no  right  to  the  peerage  incident  to 
mere  bodily  configuration ;  that  the  title  in  dispute  is 
merely  honorary,  and  depending  upon  the  breath  of  the 
common  people,  which  in  these  realms  is  so  far  from  the 
power  of  conferring  nobility,  that  the  ablest  constitu- 
tionalists have  agreed  in  nothing  more  unanimously  than 
in  the  maxim,  that  "the  king  is  the  sole  fountain  of 
honour." 

1  Hay  on  Deformity. 


CHAELES  LAMB'S  AUTOBIOGKAPHY. 

CHARLES  LAMB,  born  in  the  Inner  Temple,  10th 
February,  1775;  educated  in  Christ's  Hospital;  after- 
wards a  clerk  in  the  Accountants'  Office,  East  India 
House ;  pensioned  off  from  that  service,  1825,  after 
thirty-three  years'  service ;  is  now  a  gentleman  at  large ; 
can  remember  few  specialties  in  his  life  worth  noting, 
except  that  he  once  caught  a  swallow  flying  (teste  sud 
manu).  Below  the  middle  stature ;  cast  of  face  slightly 
Jewish,  with  no  Judaic  tinge  in  his  complexkmal  religion  ; 
stammers  abominably,  and  is  therefore  more  apt  to  dis- 
charge his  occasional  conversation  in  a  quaint  aphorism, 
or  a  poor  quibble,  than  in  set  and  edifying  speeches ;  has 
consequently  been  libelled  as  a  person  always  aiming  at 
wit ;  which,  as  he  told  a  dull  fellow  that  charged  him 
with  it,  is  at  least  as  good  as  aiming  at  dulness.  A 
small  eater,  but  not  drinker ;  confesses  a  partiality  for 
the  production  of  the  juniper-berry ;  was  a  fierce  smoker 
of  tobacco,  but  may  be  resembled  to  a  volcano  burnt  out, 
emitting  only  now  and  then  a  casual  puff.  Has  been 
guilty  of  obtruding  upon  the  public  a  tale,  in  prose, 
called  "Rosamund  Gray;"  a  dramatic  sketch,  named 
"John  Woodvil;"  a  "Farewell  Ode  to  Tobacco,"  with 
sundry  other  poems,  and  light  prose  matter,  collected  in 
two  slight  crown  octavos,  and  pompously  christened  his 
works,  though  in  fact  they  were  his  recreations ;  and  his 
true  works  may  be  found  on  the  shelves  of  Leadenhall 
Street,  filling  some  hundred  folios.  He  is  also  the  true 
Elia  whose  Essays  are  extant  in  a  little  volume,  published 


332         CHARLES  LAMB'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

a  year  or  two  since,  and  rather  better  known  from  that 
name  without  a  meaning  than  from  any  thing  he  has 
done,  or  can  hope  to  do,  in  his  own.  He  was  also  the 
first  to  draw  the  public  attention  to  the  old  English 
dramatists,  in  a  work  called  "  Specimens  of  English 
Dramatic  Writers  who  lived  about  the  Time  of  Shak- 
speare,"  published  about  fifteen  years  since.  In  short, 
all  his  merits  and  demerits  to  set  forth  would  take  tc 
the  end  of  Mr.  Upcott's  book,  and  then  not  be  told 
truly. 

He  died          18     ,  much  lamented. 


18th  April  1827. 


Witness  his  hand, 

CHARLES  LAMB. 


LETTER  OF  ELIA 
TO  EGBERT  SOUTHEY,  ESQ. 

SIR — You  have  done  me  an  unfriendly  office,  without 
perhaps  much  considering  what  you  were  doing.  You 
have  given  an  ill  name  to  my  poor  lucubrations.  In  a 
recent  paper  on  Infidelity,  you  usher  in  a  conditional 
commendation  of  them  with  an  exception ;  which,  preced- 
ing the  encomium,  and  taking  up  nearly  the  same  space 
with  it,  must  impress  your  readers  with  the  notion,  that 
the  objectional  parts  in  them  are  at  least  equal  in  quantity 
to  the  pardonable.  The  censure  is  in  fact  the  criticism ; 
the  praise — a  concession  merely.  Exceptions  usually 
follow,  to  qualify  praise  or  blame.  But  there  stands 
your  reproof,  in  the  very  front  of  your  notice,  in  ugly 
characters,  like  some  bugbear,  to  frighten  all  good  Christ- 
ians from  purchasing.  Through  you  I  become  an  object 
of  suspicion  to  preceptors  of  youth,  and  fathers  of  families. 
"A  book  which  wants  only  a  sounder  religious  feeling, 
to  be  as  delightful  as  it  is  original"  With  no  further 
explanation,  what  must  your  readers  conjecture,  but  that 
my  little  volume  is  some  vehicle  for  heresy  or  infidelity  1 
The  quotation  which  you  honour  me  by  subjoining,  oddly 
enough,  is  of  a  character  which  bespeaks  a  temperament 
in  the  writer  the  very  reverse  of  that  your  reproof  goes 
to  insinuate.  Had  you  been  taxing  me  with  superstition, 
the  passage  would  have  been  pertinent  to  the  censure. 
Was  it  worth  your  while  to  go  so  far  out  of  your  way  to 
affront  the  feelings  of  an  old  friend,  and  commit  yourself 


334  LETTER  TO  SOUTHEY. 

by  an  irrelevant  quotation,  for  the  pleasure  of  reflecting 
upon  a  poor  child,  an  exile  at  Genoa  ? 

I  am  at  a  loss  what  particular  essay  you  had  in  view 
(if  my  poor  ramblings  amount  to  that  appellation)  when 
you  were  in  such  a  hurry  to  thrust  in  your  objection, 
like  bad  news,  foremost. — Perhaps  the  paper  on  "  Saying 
Graces  "  was  the  obnoxious  feature.  I  have  endeavoured 
there  to  rescue  a  voluntary  duty — good  in  place,  but 
never,  as  I  remember,  literally  commanded — from  the 
charge  of  an  un decent  formality.  Rightly  taken,  sir, 
that  paper  was  not  against  Graces,  but  Want  of  Grace ; 
not  against  the  ceremony,  but  the  carelessness  and  sloven- 
liness so  often  observed  in  the  performance  of  it. 

Or  was  it  tJtat  on  the  "  New  Year  " — in  which  I  have 
described  the  feelings  of  the  merely  natural  man,  on  a 
consideration  of  the  amazing  change,  which  is  supposable 
to  take  place  on  our  removal  from  this  fleshly  scene  1  If 
men  would  honestly  confess  their  misgivings  (which  few 
men  will)  there  are  times  when  the  strongest  Christian 
of  us,  I  believe,  has  reeled  under  questions  of  such 
staggering  obscurity.  I  do  not  accuse  you  of  this  weak- 
ness. There  are  some  who  tremblingly  reach  out  shaking 
hands  to  the  guidance  of  Faith — others  who  stoutly 
venture  into  the  dark  (their  Human  Confidence  their 
leader,  whom  they  mistake  for  Faith) ;  and,  investing 
themselves  beforehand  with  cherubic  wings,  as  they  fancy, 
find  their  new  robes  as  familiar,  and  fitting  to  the  sup- 
posed growth  and  stature  in  godliness,  as  the  cast  they 
left  off  yesterday — some  whose  hope  totters  upon  crutches 
— others  who  stalk  into  futurity  upon  stilts. 

The  contemplation  of  a  Spiritual  World, — which,  with- 
out the  addition  of  a  misgiving  conscience,  is  enough  to 
shake  some  natures  to  their  foundation — is  smoothly  got 
over  by  others,  who  shall  float  over  the  black  billows  in 
their  little  boat  of  No-Distrust,  as  unconcernedly  as  over 
a  summer  sea.  The  difference  is  chiefly  constitutional. 

One  man  shall  love  his  friends  and  his  friends'  faces ; 
and.  under  the  uncertainty  of  conversing  with  them 


LETTER  TO  SOUTHEY.  335 

again,  in  the  same  manner  and  familiar  circumstances  of 
sight,  speech,  etc.,  as  upon  earth — in  a  moment  of  no 
irreverent  weakness  —  for  a  dream -while — no  more — 
would  be  almost  content,  for  a  reward  of  a  life  of  virtue 
(if  he  could  ascribe  such  acceptance  to  his  lame  perform- 
ances), to  take  up  his  portion  with  those  he  loved,  and 
was  made  to  love,  in  this  good  world,  which  he  knows — 
which  was  created  so  lovely,  beyond  his  deservings. 
Another,  embracing  a  more  exalted  vision — so  that  he 
might  receive  indefinite  additaments  of  power,  knowledge, 
beauty,  glory,  etc. — is  ready  to  forego  the  recognition  of 
humbler  individualities  of  earth,  and  the  old  familiar 
faces.  The  shapings  of  our  heavens  are  the  modifications 
of  our  constitutions ;  and  Mr.  Feeble  Mind,  or  Mr.  Great 
Heart,  is  born  in  every  one  of  us. 

Some  (and  such  have  been  accounted  the  safest  divines) 
have  shrunk  from  pronouncing  upon  the  final  state  of  any 
man ;  nor  dare  they  pronounce  the  case  of  Judas  to  be 
desperate.  Others  (with  stronger  optics),  as  plainly  as 
with  the  eye  of  flesh,  shall  behold  a  given  Icing  in  bliss, 
and  a  given,  chamberlain  in  torment ;  even  to  the  eter- 
nising of  a  cast  of  the  eye  in  the  latter,  his  own  self- 
mocked  and  good-humouredly-borne  deformity  on  earth, 
but  supposed  to  aggravate  the  uncouth  and  hideous 
expression  of  his  pangs  in  the  other  place.  That  one 
man  can  presume  so  far,  and  that  another  would  with 
shuddering  disclaim  such  confidences,  is,  I  believe,  an 
effect  of  the  nerves  purely. 

If,  in  either  of  these  papers,  or  elsewhere,  I  have  been 
betrayed  into  some  levities — not  affronting  the  sanctuary, 
but  glancing  perhaps  at  some  of  the  outskirts  and  extreme 
edges,  the  debatable  land  between  the  holy  and  profane 
regions— (for  the  admixture  of  man's  inventions,  twisting 
themselves  with  the  name  of  religion  itself  has  artfully 
made  it  difficult  to  touch  even  the  alloy,  without,  in  some 
men's  estimation,  soiling  the  fine  gold) — if  I  have  sported 
within  the  purlieus  of  serious  matter — it  was,  I  dare  say, 
a  humour— be  not  startled,  sir,— which  I  have  unwifc 


336  LETTER  TO  SOUTHEY. 

tingly  derived  from  yourself.  You  have  all  your  life 
been  making  a  jest  of  the  Devil.  Not  of  the  scriptural 
meaning  of  that  dark  essence — personal  or  allegorical ; 
for  the  nature  is  nowhere  plainly  delivered.  I  acquit 
you  of  intentional  irreverence.  But  indeed  you  have 
made  wonderfully  free  with,  and  been  mighty  pleasant 
upon,  the  popular  idea  and  attributes  of  him.  A  Noble 
Lord,  your  brother  Visionary,  has  scarcely  taken  greater 
liberties  with  the  material  keys,  and  merely  Catholic 
notion  of  St.  Peter.  You  have  flattered  him  in  prose ; 
you  have  chanted  him  in  goodly  odes.  You  have  been 
his  Jester;  volunteer  Laureate,  and  self-elected  Court 
Poet  to  Beelzebub. 

You  have  never  ridiculed,  I  believe,  what  you  thought 
to  be  religion,  but  you  are  always  girding  at  what  some 
pious,  but  perhaps  mistaken  folks,  think  to  be  so.  For 
this  reason,  I  am  sorry  to  ho°r  that  you  are  engaged 
upon  a  life  of  George  Fox.  1  know  you  will  fall  into 
the  error  of  intermixing  some  comic  stuff  with  your 
seriousness.  The  Quakers  tremble  at  the  subject  in  your 
hands.  The  Methodists  are  as  shy  of  you,  upon  account 
of  their  founder.  But,  above  all,  our  Popish  brethren 
are  most  in  your  debt.  The  errors  of  that  Church  have 
proved  a  fruitful  source  to  your  scoffing  vein.  Their 
Legend  has  been  a  Golden  one  to  you.  And  here  your 
friends,  sir,  have  noticed  a  notable  inconsistency.  To 
the  imposing  rites,  the  solemn  penances,  devout  austeri- 
ties of  that  communion ;  the  affecting  though  erring 
piety  of  their  hermits ;  the  silence  and  solitude  of  the 
Chartreux — their  crossings,  their  holy  waters  —  their 
Virgin,  and  their  saints — to  these,  they  say,  you  have 
been  indebted  for  the  best  feelings,  and  the  richest 
imagery,  of  your  epic  poetry.  You  have  drawn  copious 
drafts  upon  Loretto.  We  thought  at  one  time  you  were 
going  post  to  Rome — but  that  in  the  facetious  commen- 
taries, which  it  is  your  custom  to  append  so  plentifully, 
and  (some  say)  injudiciously,  to  your  loftiest  perform- 
ances in  this  kind,  you  spurn  the  uplifted  toe,  which  you 


LETTER  TO  SOUTHEY.  337 

but  just  now  seemed  to  court ;  leave  his  holiness  in  the 
lurch ;  and  show  him  a  fair  pair  of  Protestant  heels 
under  your  Romish  vestment.  When  we  think  you 
already  at  the  wicket,  suddenly  a  violent  cross  wind 
blows  you  transverse — 

' '  Ten  thousand  leagues  awry. 

Then  might  we  see 

Cowls,  hoods,  and  habits,  with  their  wearers,  tost 
And  flutter'd  into  rags  ;  then  reliques,  beads, 
Indulgences,  dispenses,  pardons,  bulls, 
The  sport  of  winds." 

You  pick  up  pence  by  showing  the  hallowed  bones,  shrine, 
and  crucifix ;  and  you  take  money  a  second  time  by  ex- 
posing the  trick  of  them  afterwards.  You  carry  your 
verse  to  Castle  Angelo  for  sale  in  a  morning;  and, 
swifter  than  a  pedlar  can  transmute  his  pack,  you  are  at 
Canterbury  with  your  prose  ware  before  night. 

Sir,  is  it  that  I  dislike  you  in  this  merry  vein  ?  The 
very  reverse.  No  countenance  becomes  an  intelligent 
jest  better  than  your  own.  It  is  your  grave  aspect, 
when  you  look  awful  upon  your  poor  friends,  which  I 
would  deprecate. 

In  more  than  one  place,  if  I  mistake  not,  you  have 
been  pleased  to  compliment  me  at  the  expense  of  my 
companions.  I  cannot  accept  your  compliment  at  such 
a  price.  The  upbraiding  a  man's  poverty  naturally  makes 
him  look  about  him  to  see  whether  he  be  so  poor  indeed 
as  he  is  presumed  to  be.  You  have  put  me  upon  count- 
ing my  riches.  Really,  Sir,  I  did  not  know  I  was  so 

wealthy  in  the  article  of  friendships.  There  is ,  and 

,  whom  you  never  heard  of,  but  exemplary  characters 

both,  and  excellent  church-goers ;  and  N.,  mine  and 
my  father's  friend  for  nearly  half  a  century ;  and  the  en- 
thusiast for  Wordsworth's  poetry,  T.N.T.,  a  little  tainted 
with  Socinianism,  it  is  to  be  feared,  but  constant  in  his 

attv.'hments,  and  a  capital  critic ;  and ,  a  sturdy 

old  Athanasian,  so  that  sets  all  to  rights  again ;  and 

W.,  the   light,    and   warm-as-light-hearted,    Janus   of 

z 


338  LETTER  TO  SOUTHEY 

the  London;  and  the  translator  of  Dante,  still  a 
curate,  modest  and  amiable  C. ;  and  Allan  C.,  the  large- 
hearted  Scot;  and  P r,  candid  and  affectionate  as 

his  own  poetry;  and  A p,  Coleridge's  friend;  aud 

G n,  his  more  than  friend ;  and  Coleridge  himsulf  j 

the  same  to  me  still,  as  in  those  old  evenings,  when  we 
used  to  sit  and  speculate  (do  you  remember  them,  Sir  1) 
at  our  old  Salutation  tavern,  upon  Pantisocracy  and 

golden  days  to  come  on  earth ;  and  W th  (why,  sir, 

I  might  drop  my  rent-roll  here,  such  goodly  farms  and 
manors  have  I  reckoned  up  already.  In  what  possession 
has  not  this  last  name  alone  estated  me  ? — but  I  will  go 
on) — and  M ,  the  noble-minded  kinsman,  by  wed- 
lock, of  W th ;  and  H.  C.  K.,  unwearied  in  the 

offices  of  a  friend ;  and  Clnrkson,  almost  above  the 
narrowness  of  that  relation,  yet  condescending  not  seldom 
heretofore  from  the  labours  of  his  world-embracing  charity 
to  bless  my  humble  roof;  and  the  gall-less  and  single- 
minded  Dyer ;  and  the  high-minded  associate  of  Cook, 
the  veteran  Colonel,  with  his  lusty  heart  still  sending 
cartels  of  defiance  to  old  Time ;  and,  not  least,  W.A., 
the  last  and  steadiest  left  to  me  of  that  little  knot  of 
whist-players,  that  used  to  assemble  weekly,  for  so  many 
years,  at  the  Queen's  Gate  (you  remember  them,  Sir?) 
and  called  Admiral  Burney  friend. 

I  will  come  to  the  point  at  once.  I  believe  you  will 
not  make  many  exceptions  to  my  associates  so  far.  But 
I  have  purposely  omitted  some  intimacies,  which  I  do 
not  yet  repent  of  having  contracted,  with  two  gentlemen 
diametrically  opposed  to  yourself  in  principles.  You  will 
understand  me  to  allude  to  the  authors  of  "  Rimini "  and 
of  the  "  Table  Talk."  And  first  of  the  former.— 

It  is  an  error  more  particularly  incident  to  persons  of 
the  correctest  principles  and  habits,  to  seclude  themselves 
from  the  rest  of  mankind,  as  from  another  species,  and 
form  into  knots  and  clubs.  The  best  people,  herding 
thus  exclusively,  are  in  danger  of  contracting  a  narrow- 
ness. Heat  and  cold,  dryness  and  moisture,  in  the 


LETTER  TO  SOUTHEY.  339 

natural  world  do  not  fly  asunder,  to  split  the  globe  into 
sectarian  parts  and  separations  ;  but  mingling,  as  they 
best  may,  correct  the  malignity  of  any  single  predomin- 
ance. The  analogy  holds,  I  suppose,  in  the  moral  world. 
If  all  the  good  people  were  to  ship  themselves  off  to  Terra 
Incognita,  what,  in  humanity's  name,  is  to  become  of  the 
refuse?  If  the  persons,  whom  I  have  chiefly  in  view, 
have  not  pushed  matters  to  this  extremity  yet,  they  carry 
them  as  far  as  they  can  go.  Instead  of  mixing  with  the 
infidel  and  the  freethinker — in  the  room  of  opening  a 
negotiation,  to  try  at  least  to  find  out  at  which  gate  the 
error  entered — they  huddle  close  together,  in  a  weak  fear 
of  infection,  like  that  pusillanimous  underling  in  Spenser — 

"  This  is  the  wandering  wood,  this  Error's  den  ; 
A  monster  vile,  whom  God  and  man  does  hate  : 
Therefore,  I  rede,  beware."     Fly,  fly,  quoth  then 
The  fearful  Dwarf. 

And,  if  they  be  writers  in  orthodox  journals,  address- 
ing themselves  only  to  the  irritable  passions  of  the  un- 
believer, they  proceed  in  a  safe  system  of  strengthening 
the  strong  hands,  and  confirming  the  valiant  knees;  of 
converting  the  already  converted,  and  proselyting  their 
own  party.  I  am  the  more  convinced  of  this  from  a 
passage  in  the  very  Treatise  which  occasioned  this  letter. 
It  is  where,  having  recommended  to  the  doubter  the 
writings  of  Michaelis  and  Larduer,  you  ride  triumphantly 
over  the  necks  of  all  infidels,  sceptics,  and  dissenters, 
from  this  time  to  the  world's  end,  upon  the  wheels  of 
two  unanswerable  deductions.  I  do  not  hold  it  meet  to 
set  down,  in  a  Miscellaneous  Compilation  like  this,  such 
religious  words  as  you  have  thought  fit  to  introduce  into 
the  pages  of  a  petulant  literary  journal  I  therefore  beg 
leave  to  substitute  numerals,  and  refer  to  the  Quarterly 
Review  (for  January)  for  filling  of  them  up.  "  Here," 
say  you  "as  in  the  history  of  7,  if  these  books  are 
authentic,  the  events  which  they  relate  must  be  true ; 
if  they  were  written  by  8,  9  is  10  and  11."  Your  first 
deduction,  if  it  means  honestly,  rests  upon  two  identical 


340  LETTER  TO  SOUTHEY. 

propositions ;  though  I  suspect  an  unfairness  in  one  of 
the  terms,  which  this  would  not  be  quite  the  proper 
place  for  explicating.  At  all  events,  you  have  no  cause 
to  triumph ;  you  have  not  been  proving  the  premises, 
but  refer  for  satisfaction  therein  to  very  long  and  labori- 
ous works,  which  may  well  employ  the  sceptic  a  twelve- 
month or  two  to  digest,  before  he  can  possibly  be  ripe 
for  your  conclusion.  When  he  has  satisfied  himself  about 
the  premises,  he  will  concede  to  you  the  inference,  I  dare 
say,  most  readily.  But  your  latter  deduction,  viz.,  that 
because  8  has  written  a  book  concerning  9,  therefore  10 
and  11  was  certainly  his  meaning,  is  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  conclusions  per  saltum  that  I  have  had  the 
good  fortune  to  meet  with.  As  far  as  10  is  verbally 
asserted  in  the  writings,  all  sects  must  agree  with  you ; 
but  you  cannot  be  ignorant  of  tlie  many  various  ways  in 
which  the  doctrine  of  the  *  *  *  *  has  been  understood, 
from  a  low  figurative  expression  (with  the  Unitarians) 
up  to  the  most  mysterious  actuality ;  in  which  highest 
sense  alone  you  and  your  church  take  it.  And  for  11, 
that  there  is  no  other  possible  conclusion — to  hazard  this 
in  the  face  of  so  many  thousands  of  Arians  and  Socinians, 
etc.,  who  have  drawn  so  opposite  a  one,  is  such  a  piece 
of  theological  hardihood,  as,  I  think,  warrants  me  in  con- 
cluding that,  when  you  sit  down  to  pen  theology,  you  do 
not  at  all  consider  your  opponents,  but  have  in  your  eye, 
merely  and  exclusively,  readers  of  the  same  way  of  think- 
ing with  yourself,  and  therefore  have  no  occasion  to 
trouble  yourself  with  the  quality  of  the  logic  to  which 
you  treat  them. 

Neither  can  I  think,  if  you  had  had  the  welfare  of  the 
poor  child — over  whose  hopeless  condition  you  whine  so 
Lamentably  and  (I  must  think)  unseasonably — seriously  at 
heart,  that  you  could  have  taken  the  step  of  sticking  him 
up  by  name — T.  H.,  is  as  good  as  naming  him — to  per- 
petuate an  outrage  upon  the  parental  feelings,  as  long  as 
the  Quarterly  Review  shall  last.  Was  it  necessary  to 
specify  an  individual  case,  and  give  to  Christian  com- 


LETTER  TO  SOUTHEY.  341 

passion  the  appearance  of  a  personal  attack  1  Is  this  the 
way  to  conciliate  unbelievers,  or  not  rather  to  widen  the 
breach  irreparably  ? 

I  own  I  could  never  think  so  considerably  of  myself 
as  to  decline  the  society  of  an  agreeable  or  worthy  man 
upon  difference  of  opinion  only.  The  impediments  and 
the  facilitations  to  a  sound  belief  are  various  and  inscrut- 
able as  the  heart  of  man.  Some  believe  upon  weak  prin- 
ciples ;  others  cannot  feel  the  efficacy  of  the  strongest. 
One  of  the  most  candid,  most  upright,  and  single-meaning 
men  I  ever  knew,  was  the  late  Thomas  Holcroft.  I 
believe  he  never  said  one  thing,  and  meant  another,  in 
his  life ;  and,  as  near  as  I  can  guess,  he  never  acted 
otherwise  than  with  the  most  scrupulous  attention  to 
conscience.  Ought  we  to  wish  the  character  false,  for 
the  sake  of  a  hollow  compliment  to  Christianity  1 

Accident  introduced  me  to  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  L. 
H. — and  the  experience  of  his  many  friendly  qualities 
confirmed  a  friendship  between  us.  You  who  have  been 
misrepresented  yourself,  I  should  hope,  have  not  lent  an 
idle  ear  to  the  calumnies  which  have  been  spread  abroad 
respecting  this  gentleman.  I  was  admitted  to  his  house- 
hold for  some  years,  and  do  most  solemnly  aver  that  I 
believe  him  to  be  in  his  domestic  relations  as  correct  as 
any  man.  He  chose  an  ill-judged  subject  for  a  poem, 
the  peccant  humours  of  which  have  been  visited  on  him 
tenfold  by  the  artful  use,  which  his  adversaries  have 
made,  of  an  equivocal  term.  The  subject  itself  was 
started  by  Dante,  but  better  beeause  brieflier  treated  of. 
But  the  crime  of  the  lovers,  in  the  Italian  and  the  English 
poet,  with  its  aggravated  enormity  of  circumstance,  is  not 
of  a  kind  (as  the  critics  of  the  latter  well  knew)  with 
those  conjunctions,  for  which  Nature  herself  has  provided 
no  excuse,  because  no  temptation.  It  has  nothing  in 
common  with  the  black  horrors,  sung  by  Ford  and  Mas- 
singer.  The  familiarising  of  it  in  the  tale  and  fable  may 
be  for  that  reason  incidentally  more  contagious.  In  spite 
of  Rimini,  I  must  look  upon  its  author  as  a  man  of  taste 


342  LETTER  TO  SOUTHEY. 

and  a  poet.  He  is  better  than  so ;  he  is  one  of  the  most 
cordial-minded  men  I  ever  knew,  and  matchless  as  a  fire- 
side companion.  I  mean  not  to  affront  or  wound  your 
feelings  when  I  say  that  in  his  more  genial  moods  he  has 
often  reminded  me  of  you.  There  is  the  same  air  of  mild 
dogmatism — the  same  condescending  to  a  boyish  sportive- 
ness — in  both  your  conversations.  His  handwriting  is 
so  much  the  same  with  your  own,  that  I  have  opened 
more  than  one  letter  of  his,  hoping,  nay,  not  doubting, 
but  it  was  from  you,  and  have  been  disappointed  (he  will 
bear  with  my  saying  so)  at  the  discovery  of  my  error. 
L.  H.  is  unfortunate  in  holding  some  loose  and  not  very 
definite  speculations  (for  at  times  I  think  he  hardly  knows 
whither  his  premises  would  carry  him)  on  marriage — 
the  tenets,  I  conceive,  of  the  "  Political  Justice  "  carried 
a  little  farther.  For  anything  I  could  discover  in  his 
practice,  they  have  reference,  like  those,  to  some  future 
possible  condition  of  society,  and  not  to  the  present  times. 
But  neither  for  these  obliquities  of  thinking  (upon  which 
my  own  conclusions  are  as  distant  as  the  poles  asunder) — 
nor  for  his  political  asperities  and  petulances,  which  are 
wearing  out  with  the  heats  and  vanities  of  youth — did  I 
select  him  for  a  friend  ;  but  for  qualities  which  fitted  him 
for  that  relation.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  natter  my- 
self with  being  the  occasion,  but  certain  it  is,  that, 
touched  with  some  misgivings  for  sundry  harsh  things 
which  he  had  written  aforetime  against  our  friend  C., 
before  he  left  this  country,  he  sought  a  reconciliation  with 
that  gentleman  (himself  being  his  own  introducer),  and 
found  it. 

L.  H.  is  now  in  Italy;  on  his  departure  to  which 
land,  with  much  regret  I  took  my  leave  of  him  and  his 
little  family — seven  of  them,  Sir,  with  their  mother — and 
as  kind  a  set  of  little  people  (T.  H.  and  all),  as  affection- 
ate children  as  ever  blessed  a  parent.  Had  you  seen 
them,  Sir,  I  think  you  could  not  have  looked  upon  them 
as  so  many  little  Jonases — but  rather  as  pledges  of  the 
vessel's  safety,  that  was  to  bear  such  a  freight  of  love. 


LETTER  TO  SOUTHEY.  343 

I  wish  you  would  read  Mr.  H.'s  lines  to  that  same 
T.  H.,  "six  years  old,  during  a  sickness  :" — 

"  Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee, 
My  little  patient  boy ." 

(they  are  to  be  found  on  the  47th  page  of  "  Foliage  ") 
— and  ask  yourself  how  far  they  are  out  of  the  spirit 
of  Christianity.  I  have  a  letter  from  Italy,  received 
but  the  other  day,  into  which  L.  H.  has  put  as  much 
heart,  and  as  many  friendly  yearnings  after  old  asso- 
ciates, and  native  country,  as,  I  think,  paper  can  well 
hold.  It  would  do  you  no  hurt  to  give  that  the  perusal 
also. 

From  the  other  gentleman  I  neither  expect  nor  desire 
(as  he  is  well  assured)  any  such  concessions  as  L.  H. 
made  to  C.  What  hath  soured  him,  and  made  him  to 
suspect  his  friends  of  infidelity  towards  him,  when  there 
was  no  such  matter,  I  know  not.  I  stood  well  with  him 
for  fifteen  years  (the  proudest  of  my  life),  aud  have  ever 
spoken  my  full  mind  of  him  to  some,  to  whom  his  pan- 
egyric must  naturally  be  least  tasteful.  I  never  in  thought 
swerved  from  him,  I  never  betrayed  him,  I  never  slack- 
ened in  my  admiration  of  him ;  I  was  the  same  to  him 
(neither  better  nor  worse),  though  he  could  not  see  it,  as 
in  the  days  when  he  thought  fit  to  trust  me.  At  this 
instant  he  may  be  preparing  for  me  some  compliment, 
above  my  deserts,  as  he  has  sprinkled  many  such  among 
his  admirable  books,  for  which  I  rest  his  debtor ;  or,  for 
anything  I  know,  or  can  guess  to  the  contrary,  he  may 
be  about  to  read  a  lecture  on  my  weaknesses.  He  is 
welcome  to  them  (as  he  was  to  my  humble  hearth),  if 
they  can  divert  a  spleen,  or  ventilate  a  fit  of  sullenness. 
I  wish  he  would  not  quarrel  with  the  world  at  the  rate 
he  does ;  but  the  reconciliation  must  be  effected  by  him- 
self, and  I  despair  of  living  to  see  that  day.  But  pro- 
testing against  much  that  he  has  written,  and  some 
things  which  he  chooses  to  do;  judging  him  by  his 
conversation  which  I  enjoyed  so  long,  and  relished  so 


344  LETTER  TO  SOUTHEY. 

deeply ;  or  by  his  books,  in  those  places  where  no  cloud- 
ing passion  intervenes — I  should  belie  my  own  conscience, 
if  I  said  less,  than  that  I  think  W.  H.  to  be,  in  his 
natural  and  healthy  state,  one  of  the  wisest  and  finest 
spirits  breathing.  So  far  from  being  ashamed  of  that 
intimacy,  which  was  betwixt  us,  it  is  my  boast  that  I 
was  able  for  so  many  years  to  have  preserved  it  entire  ; 
and  I  think  I  shall  go  to  my  grave  without  finding  or 
expecting  to  find,  such  another  companion.  But  I  forget 
my  manners — you  will  pardon  me,  Sir — I  return  to  the 
correspondence. 

Sir,  you  were  pleased  (you  know  where)  to  invite  me 
to  a  compliance  with  the  wholesome  forms  and  doctrines 
of  the  Church  of  England.  I  take  your  advice  with  as 
much  kindness  as  it  was  meant.  But  I  must  think  the 
invitation  rather  more  kind  than  seasonable.  I  am  a 
Dissenter.  The  last  sect,  with  which  you  can  remember 
me  to  have  made  common  profession,  were  the  Unitarians. 
You  would  think  it  not  very  pertinent,  if  (fearing  that 
all  was  not  well  with  you)  I  were  gravely  to  invite  you 
(for  a  remedy)  to  attend  with  me  a  course  of  Mr.  Bel- 
sham's  Lectures  at  Hackney.  Perhaps  I  have  scruples 
to  some  of  your  forms  and  doctrines.  But  if  I  come,  am 
I  secure  of  civil  treatment  ?  The  last  time  I  was  in  any 
of  your  places  of  worship  was  on  Easter  Sunday  last.  I 
had  the  satisfaction  of  listening  to  a  very  sensible  sermon 
of  an  argumentative  turn,  delivered  with  great  propriety 
by  one  of  your  bishops.  The  place  was  Westminster 
Abbey.  As  such  religion  as  I  have,  has  always  acted  on 
me  more  by  way  of  sentiment  than  argumentative  process, 
I  was  not  unwilling,  after  sermon  ended,  by  no  unbecom- 
ing transition,  to  pass  over  to  some  serious  feelings, 
impossible  to  be  disconnected  from  the  sight  of  those  old 
tombs,  etc.  But,  by  whose  order  I  know  not,  I  was 
debarred  that  privilege  even  for  so  short  a  space  as  a  few 
minutes ;  and  turned,  like  a  dog,  or  some  profane  person, 
out  into  the  common  street ;  with  feelings,  which  I  could 
not  help,  but  not  very  congenial  to  the  day  or  discourse. 


LETTER  TO  SOUTHEY.  345 

I  do  not  know  that  I  shall  ever  venture  myself  again  into 
one  of  your  churches. 

You  had  your  education  at  Westminster ;  and  doubt- 
less among  those  dim  aisles  and  cloisters,  you  must  have 
gathered  much  of  that  devotional  feeling  in  those  young 
years,  on  which  your  purest  mind  feeds  still — and  may  it 
feed  !  The  antiquarian  spirit,  strong  in  you,  and  grace- 
fully blending  ever  with  the  religious,  may  have  been 
sown  in  you  among  those  wrecks  of  splendid  mortality. 
You  owe  it  to  the  place  of  your  education ;  you  owe 
it  to  your  learned  fondness  for  the  architecture  of  your 
ancestors  ;  you  owe  it  to  the  venerableness  of  your  eccle- 
siastical establishment,  which  is  daily  lessened  and  called 
in  question  through  these  practices — to  speak  aloud  your 
sense  of  them ;  never  to  desist  raising  your  voice  against 
them,  till  they  be  totally  done  away  with  and  abolished ; 
till  the  doors  of  Westminster  Abbey  be  no  longer  closed 
against  the  decent,  though  low-in-purse  enthusiast,  or 
blameless  devotee,  who  must  commit  an  injury  against 
his  family  economy,  if  he  would  be  indulged  with  a  bare 
admission  within  its  walls.  You  owe  it  to  the  decencies, 
which  you  wish  to  see  maintained  in  its  impressive  ser- 
vices, that  our  Cathedral  be  no  longer  an  object  of  in- 
spection to  the  poor  at  those  times  only,  in  which  they 
must  rob  from  their  attendance  on  the  worship  every 
minute  which  they  can  bestow  upon  the  fabric.  In  vain 
the  public  prints  have  taken  up  this  subject,  in  vain  such 
poor  nameless  writers  as  myself  express  their  indignation. 
A  word  from  you,  Sir — a  hint  in  your  Journal — would 
be  sufficient  to  fling  open  the  doors  of  the  Beautiful 
Temple  again,  as  we  can  remember  them  when  we  were 
boys.  At  that  time  of  life,  what  would  the  imaginative 
faculty  (such  as  it  is)  in  both  of  us,  have  suffered,  if  the 
entrance  to  so  much  reflection  had  been  obstructed  by 
the  demand  of  so  much  silver  ! — If  we  had  scraped  it  up 
to  gain  an  occasional  admission  (as  we  certainly  should 
have  done)  would  the  sight  of  those  old  tombs  have  been 
as  impressive  to  us  (while  we  had  been  weighing  anxiously 


346  LETTER  TO  SOUTHEY. 

prudence  against  sentiment)  as  when  the  gates  stood 
open,  as  those  of  the  adjacent  Park;  when  we  could 
walk  in  at  any  time,  as  the  mood  brought  us,  for  a 
shorter  or  a  longer  time,  as  that  lasted  ?  Is  the  being 
shown  over  a  place  the  same  as  silently  for  ourselves 
detecting  the  genius  of  it  1  In  no  part  of  our  beloved 
Abbey  now  can  a  person  find  entrance  (out  of  service 
time)  under  the  sum  of  two  shillings.  The  rich  and  the 
great  will  smile  at  the  anticlimax,  presumed  to  lie  in 
those  two  short  words.  But  you  can  tell  them,  Sir,  how 
much  quiet  worth,  how  much  capacity  for  enlarged  feel- 
ing, how  much  taste  and  genius,  may  coexist,  especially 
in  youth,  with  a  purse  incompetent  to  this  demand.  A 
respected  friend  of  ours,  during  his  late  visit  to  the 
metropolis,  presented  himself  for  admission  to  Saint 
Paul's.  At  the  same  time  a  decently  clothed  man,  with 
as  decent  a  wife,  and  child,  were  bargaining  for  the  same 
indulgence.  The  price  was  only  two-pence  each  person. 
The  poor  but  decent  man  hesitated,  desirous  to  go  in ; 
but  there  were  three  of  them,  and  he  turned  aw;iy 
reluctantly.  Perhaps  he  wished  to  have  seen  the  tomb 
of  Nelson.  Perhaps  the  Interior  of  the  Cathedral  was 
his  object.  But  in  the  state  of  his  finances,  even  sixpence 
might  reasonably  seem  too  much.  Tell  the  Aristocracy 
of  the  country  (no  man  can  do  it  more  impressively); 
instruct  them  of  what  value  these  insignificant  pieces  of 
money,  these  minims  to  their  sight,  may  be  to  their 
humbler  brethren.  Shame  these  Sellers  out  of  the 
Temple.  Show  the  poor  that  you  can  sometimes  think 
of  them  in  some  other  light  than  as  mutineers  and 
malcontents.  Conciliate  them  by  such  kind  methods  to 
their  superiors,  civil  and  ecclesiastical.  Stop  the  mouths 
of  the  railers ;  and  suffer  jour  old  friends,  upon  the  old 
terms,  again  to  honour  and  admire  you.  Stifle  not  the 
suggestions  of  your  better  nature  with  the  pretext,  that 
an  indiscriminate  admission  would  expose  the  Tombs  to 
violation.  Remember  your  boy  days.  Did  you  ever  see 
or  hear  of  a  mob  in  the  Abbey,  while  it  was  free  to  all  ? 


LETTER  TO  SOUTHEY.  347 

Did  the  rabble  come  there,  or  trouble  their  heads  about 
such  speculations  ?  It  is  all  that  you  can  do  to  drive 
them  into  your  churches ;  they  do  not  voluntarily  offer 
themselves.  They  have,  alas !  no  passion  for  antiquities ; 
for  tomb  of  king  or  prelate,  sage  or  poet.  If  they  had, 
they  would  be  no  longer  the  rabble. 

For  forty  years  that  I  have  known  the  Fabric,  the 
only  well-attested  charge  of  violation  adduced,  has  been 
— a  ridiculous  dismemberment  committed  upon  the  effigy 
of  that  amiable  spy  Major  Andre*.  And  is  it  for  this — 
the  wanton  mischief  of  some  school -boy,  fired  perhaps 
with  raw  notions  of  Transatlantic  Freedom  —  or  the 
remote  possibility  of  such  a  mischief  occurring  again,  so 
easily  to  be  prevented  by  stationing  a  constable  within 
the  walls,  if  the  vergers  are  incompetent  to  the  duty — 
is  it  upon  such  wretched  pretences,  that  the  people  of 
England  are  made  to  pay  a  new  Peter's  Pence,  so  long 
abrogated ;  or  must  content  themselves  with  contemplat- 
ing the  ragged  Exterior  of  their  Cathedral  ?  The  mischief 
was  done  about  the  time  that  you  were  a  scholar  there. 
Do  you  know  anything  about  the  unfortunate  relic  1  Can 
you  help  us  in  this  emergency  to  find  the  nose?  or  can 
you  give  Chantrey  a  notion  (from  memory)  of  its  pristine 
life  and  vigour  ?  I  am  willing  for  peace's  sake  to  sub- 
scribe my  guinea  towards  the  restoration  of  the  lamented 
feature. — I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  Servant, 

ELIA. 


TABLE-TALK,  AND  FRAGMENTS  OF 
CRITICISM. 

IT  is  a  desideratum  in  works  that  treat  de  re  culinarid, 
that  we  have  no  rationale  of  sauces,  or  theory  of  mixed 
flavours :  as  to  show  why  cabbage  is  reprehensible  with 
roast  beef,  laudable  with  bacon ;  why  the  haunch  of 
mutton  seeks  the  alliance  of  currant -jelly,  the  shoulder 
civilly  declineth  it ;  why  loin  of  veal  (a  pretty  problem), 
being  itself  unctuous,  seeketh  the  adventitious  lubricity 
of  melted  butter, — and  why  the  same  part  in  pork,  not 
more  oleaginous,  abhorreth  from  it ;  why  the  French 
bean  sympathises  with  the  flesh  of  deer ;  why  salt  fish 
points  to  parsnip,  brawn  makes  a  dead-set  at  mustard  ; 
why  cats  prefer  valerian  to  heart's-ease,  old  ladies  vice 
versa, — though  this  is  rather  travelling  out  of  the  road 
of  the  dietetics,  and  may  be  thought  a  question  more 
curious  than  relevant ;  why  salmon  (a  strong  sapor  per 
se)  fortifieth  its  condition  with  the  mighty  lobster-sauce, 
whose  embraces  are  fatal  to  the  delicater  relish  of  the 
turbot;  why  oysters  in  death  rise  up  against  the  con- 
tamination of  brown  sugar,  while  they  are  posthumously 
amorous  of  vinegar,  why  the  sour  mango  and  the  sweet 
jam  by  turns  court  and  are  accepted  by  the  compilable 
mutton-hash, — she  not  yet  decidedly  declaring  for  either. 
We  are  as  yet  but  in  the  empirical  stage  of  cookery. 
We  feed  ignorantly,  and  want  to  be  able  to  give  a  reason 
of  the  relish  that  is  in  us ;  so  that,  if  Nature  should 
furnish  us  with  a  new  meat,  or  be  prodigally  pleased  to 


TABLE-TALK  AND  FRAGMENTS  OF  CRITICISM.        349 

restore  the  phoenix,  upon  a  given  flavour,  we  might  be  able 
to  pronounce  instantly,  on  philosophical  principles,  what 
the  sauce  to  it  should  be, — what  the  curious  adjuncts. 

The  greatest  pleasure  I  know  is  to  do  a  good  action 
by  stealth,  and  to  have  it  found  out  by  accident. 

'Tis  unpleasant  to  meet  a  beggar.  It  is  painful  to 
deny  him ;  and,  if  you  relieve  him,  it  is  so  much  out  of 
your  pocket 

Men  marry  for  fortune,  and  sometimes  to  please  their 
fancy ;  but,  much  oftener  than  is  suspected,  they  consider 
what  the  world  will  say  of  it, — how  such  a  woman  in 
their  friends'  eyes  will  look  at  the  head  of  a  table. 
Hence  we  see  so  many  insipid  beauties  made  wives  of, 
that  could  not  have  struck  the  particular  fancy  of  any 
man  that  had  any  fancy  at  all.  These  I  call  furniture 
wives ;  as  men  buy  furniture  pictures,  because  they  suit 
this  or  that  niche  in  their  dining-parlours. 

Your  universally  cried -up  beauties  are  the  very  last 
choice  which  a  man  of  taste  would  make.  What  pleases 
all,  cannot  have  that  individual  charm  which  makes  this 
or  that  countenance  engaging  to  you,  and  to  you  only 
perhaps,  you  know  not  why.  What  gained  the  fair 
Gunnings  titled  husbands,  who,  after  all,  turned  out  very 
sorry  wives  ]  Popular  repute. 

It  is  a  sore  trial  when  a  daughter  shall  marry  against 
her  father's  approbation.  A  little  hard-heartedness,  and 
aversion  to  a  reconcilement,  is  almost  pardonable.  After 
all,  Will  Dockwray's  way  is,  perhaps,  the  wisest.  His 
best-loved  daughter  made  a  most  imprudent  match ;  in 
fact,  eloped  with  the  last  man  in  the  world  that  her 
father  would  have  wished  her  to  marry.  All  the  world 
said  that  he  would  never  speak  to  her  again.  For 
months  she  durst  not  write  to  him,  much  less  come  near 
him.  But,  in  a  casual  rencounter,  he  met  her  in  the 


350       TABLE-TALK  AND  FRAGMENTS  OF  CRITICISM. 

streets  of  Ware, — Ware,  that  will  long  remember  the 
mild  virtues  of  William  Dockwray,  Esq.  What  said 
the  parent  to  his  disobedient  child,  whose  knees  faltered 
under  her  at  the  sight  of  him  1  "  Ha,  Sukey  !  is  it 
you  ?"  with  that  benevolent  aspect  with  which  he  paced 
the  streets  of  Ware,  venerated  as  an  angel :  "  come  and 
dine  with  us  on  Sunday."  Then  turning  away,  and 
again  turning  back,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  something, 
he  added,  "And,  Sukey,  do  you  hear? — bring  your 
husband  with  you."  This  was  all  the  reproof  she  ever 
heard  from  him.  Need  it  be  added,  that  the  match 
turned  out  better  for  Susan  than  the  world  expected  1 

The  vices  of  some  men  are  magnificent.  Compare  the 
amours  of  Henry  the  Eighth  and  Charles  the  Second. 
The  Stuart  had  mistresses  :  the  Tudor  kept  wives. 

"  We  read  the  '  Paradise  Lost '  as  a  task,"  says  Dr. 
Johnson.  Nay,  rather  as  a  celestial  recreation,  of  which 
the  dullard  mind  is  not  at  all  hours  alike  recipient. 
"Nobody  ever  wished  it  longer;"  nor  the  moon  rounder, 
he  might  have  added.  Why,  'tis  the  perfectness  and 
completeness  of  it  which  makes  us  imagine  that  not  a 
line  could  be  added  to  it,  or  diminished  from  it,  with 
advantage.  Would  we  have  a  cubit  added  to  the  stature 
of  the  Medicean  Venus  ?  Do  we  wish  her  taller  1 

Amidst  the  complaints  of  the  wide  spread  of  infidelity 
among  us,  it  is  consolatory  that  a  sect  has  sprung  up  in 
the  heart  of  the  metropolis,  and  is  daily  on  the  increase, 
of  teachers  of  that  healing  doctrine  which  Pope  upheld, 
and  against  which  Voltaire  directed  his  envenomed  wit : 
we  mean  those  practical  preachers  of  optimism,  or  tho 
belief  that  u'hatever  is  is  best;  the  cads  of  omnibuses, 
who  from  their  little  back  pulpits,  not  once  in  three  or 
four  hours,  as  those  proclaimers  of  "  God  and  his  prophet" 
in  Mussulman  countries,  but  every  minute,  at  the  entry 
or  exit  of  a  brief  passenger,  are  heard,  in  an  almost 


TABLE-TALK  AND  FRAGMENTS  OF  CRITICISM.        351 

prophetic  tone,  to  exclaim  (Wisdom  crying  out,  as  it 
were,  in  the  streets),  "ALL'S  EIGHT  !" 

Advice  is  not  so  commonly  thrown  away  as  is  imagined. 
We  seek  it  in  difficulties.  But,  in  common  speech,  \se 
are  apt  to  confound  with  it  admonition;  as  when  a 
friend  reminds  one  that  drink  is  prejudicial  to  the  health, 
etc.  We  do  not  care  to  be  told  of  that  which  we  know 

better  than  the  good  man  that  admonishes.  M 

sent  to  his  friend  L ,  who  is  no  water-drinker,  a 

twopenny  tract  "Against  the  Use  of  Fermented  Liquors." 

L acknowledged  the  obligation,  as  far  as  to  twopence. 

Penotier's  advice  was  the  safest,  after  all : — 

"  I  advised  him  " — 

But  I  must  tell  you.  The  dear,  good-meaning,  no- 
thinking  creature  had  been  dumfounding  a  company  of 
us  with  a  detail  of  inextricable  difficulties,  in  which  the 
circumstances  of  an  acquaintance  of  his  were  involved. 
No  clew  of  light  offered  itself.  He  grew  more  and 
more  misty  as  he  proceeded.  We  pitied  his  friend,  and 
thought, — 

"God  help  the  man  so  rapt  in  Error's  endless  maze  !" 

when,  suddenly  brightening  up  his  placid  countenance, 
like  one  that  had  found  out  a  riddle,  and  looked  to  have 
the  solution  admired, — 

"  At  last,"  said  he,  "  I  advised  him  "— 

Here  he  paused,  and  here  we  were  again  interminably 
thrown  back.  By  no  possible  guess  could  any  of  us 
aim  at  the  drift  of  the  meaning  he  was  about  to  be 
delivered  of. 

"  I  advised  him,"  he  repeated,  "  to  have  some  advice 
upon  the  subject." 

A  general  approbation  followed;  and  it  was  unani- 
mously agreed,  that,  under  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case, 
no  sounder  or  more  judicious  counsel  could  have  been  given 

A  laxity  pervades  the  popular  use  of  words. 


352       TABLE-TALK  AND  FRAGMENTS  OF  CRITICISM. 

Parson  W—  —  is  not  quite  so  continent  as  L'i.ina,  yet 
prettily  dissembleth  his  frailty.  Is  Parson  W ,  there- 
fore, a  hypocrite  ?  I  think  not.  Where  the  conceal- 
ment of  a  vice  is  less  pernicious  than  the  barefaced 
publication  of  it  would  be,  no  additional  delinquency  is 

incurred  in  the  secrecy.     Parson  W is  simply  an 

immoral  clergyman.     But  if  Parson  W were  to  be 

for  ever  haranguing  on  the  opposite  virtue ;  choosing 
for  his  perpetual  text,  in  preference  to  all  other  pulpit- 
topics,  the  remarkable  resistance  recorded  in  the  39th 
of  Exodus ;  dwelling,  moreover,  and  dilating  upon  it, 

— then  Parson  W might  be  reasonably  suspected 

of  hypocrisy.     But  Parson  W rarely  diverteth  into 

such  line  of  argument,  or  toucheth  it  briefly.  His 
ordinary  topics  are  fetched  from  "obedience  to  the 
powers  that  are,"  "submission  to  the  civil  magistrate 
in  all  commands  that  are  not  absolutely  unlawful ;"  on 
which  he  can  delight  to  expatiate  with  equal  fervour  and 
sincerity. 

Again :  to  despise  a  person  is  properly  to  look  doion 
upon  him  with  none  or  the  least  possible  emotion ;  but 
when  Clementina,  who  has  lately  lost  her  lover,  with 
bosom  heaving,  eyes  flashing,  and  her  whole  frame  in 
agitation,  pronounces  with  a  peculiar  emphasis  that  she 
"  despises  the  fellow,"  depend  upon  it  that  he  is  not  quite 
so  despicable  in  her  eyes  as  she  would  have  us  imagine. 

One  more  instance.  If  we  must  naturalise  that  por- 
tentous phrase,  a  truism,  it  were  well  that  we  limited 
the  use  of  it.  Every  commonplace  or  trite  observation  is 
not  a  truism.  For  example  :  A  good  name  helps  a  man 
on  in  the  world.  This  is  nothing  but  a  simple  truth, 
however  hackneyed.  It  has  a  distinct  subject  and  predi 
cate.  But  when  the  thing  predicated  is  involved  in  the 
term  of  the  subject,  and  so  necessarily  involved  that  by 
no  possible  conception  they  can  be  separated,  then  it 
becomes  a  truism ;  as  to  say,  "  A  good  name  is  a  proof 
of  a  man's  estimation  in  the  world."  We  seem  to  be 
saying  something,  when  we  say  nothing.  I  was  describing 


TABLE-TALK  AND  FRAGMENTS  OF  CRITICISM.       353 

to  F some  knavish  tricks  of  a  mutual  friend  of  ours. 

"  If  he  did  so  and  so,"  was  the  reply,  "  he  cannot  be  an 
honest  man."  Here  was  a  genuine  truism,  truth  upon 
truth,  inference  and  proposition  identical,  or  rather  a 
dictionary  definition  usurping  the  place  of  an  inference. 

We  are  ashamed  at  sight  of  a  monkey, — somehow  as 
we  are  shy  of  poor  relations. 

C imagined  a  Caledonian  compartment  in  Hades, 

where  there  should  be  fire  without  sulphur. 

Absurd  images  are  sometimes  irresistible.  I  will 
mention  two, — an  elephant  in  a  coach-office  gravely 
coming  to  have  his  trunk  booked ;  a  mermaid  over  a  fish- 
kettle  cooking  her  own  tail 

It  is  the  praise  of  Shakspeare,  with  reference  to  the 
playwriters  his  contemporaries,  that  he  has  so  few  re- 
volting characters.  Yet  he  has  one  that  is  singularly 
mean  and  disagreeable, — the  King  in  "Hamlet."  Neither 
has  he  characters  of  insignificance,  unless  the  phantom 
that  stalks  over  the  stage  as  Julius  Caesar,  in  the  play 
of  that  name,  may  be  accounted  one.  Neither  has  he 
envious  characters,  excepting  the  short  part  of  Don  John, 
in  "  Much  Ado  about  Nothing."  Neither  has  he  un- 
entertaining  characters,  if  we  except  Parolles,  and  the 
little  that  there  is  of  the  Clown  in  "Ail's  Well  that 
Ends  WelL" 

Is  it  possible  that  Shakspeare  should  never  have  read 
Homer,  in  Chapman's  version  at  least?  If  he  had  read 
it,  could  he  mean  to  travesty  it  in  the  parts  of  those 
big  boobies,  Ajax  and  Achilles  ]  Ulysses,  Nestor,  and 
Agamemnon  are  true  to  their  parts  in  the  "  Iliad  :"  they 
are  gentlemen  at  least.  Thersites,  though  unamusing, 
is  fairly  deducible  from  it.  Troilus  and  Cressida  are  a 
fine  graft  upon  it.  But  those  two  big  bulks — 
2  A 


354      TABLE-TALK  AND  FKAGMENTS  OF  CRITICISM. 

It  would  settle  the  dispute  as  to  whether  Shakspeare 
intended  Othello  for  a  jealous  character,  to  consider  how 
differently  we  are  affected  towards  him  and  towards 
Leoutes  in  the  "Winter's  Tale."  Leontes  is  that  char- 
acter. Othello's  fault  was  simply  credulity. 

' '  Lear.     Who  are  you  ? 

Mine  eyes  are  none  of  the  best.     I'll  tell  you  straight. 
Are  you  not  Kent  ? 

Kent.     The  same  ;  your  servant  Kent. 
Where  is  your  servant  Caius  ? 

Lear.     'Twas  a  good  fellow,  I  can  tell  you  that ; 
He'd  strike,  and  quickly  too  :  he  is  dead  and  rotten. 

Kent.     No,  my  good  lord  :  I  am  the  very  man — 

Lear.     I'll  see  that  straight — 

Kent.     That  from  your  first  of  difference  and  decay 
Have  followed  your  sad  steps. 

Lear.     You  are  welcome  hither. 

Albany.     He  knows  not  what  he  says  ;  and  vain  is  it 
That  we  present  us  to  him. 

Edgar.     Look  up,  my  lord. 

Kent.     Vex  not  his  ghost.     Oh  !  let  him  pass.     He  hates  him 
That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  rough  world 
Stretch  him  out  longer." 

So  ends  "  King  Lear,"  the  most  stupendous  of  the 
Shakspearian  dramas ;  and  Kent,  the  noblest  feature  of 
the  conceptions  of  his  divine  mind.  This  is  the  magna- 
nimity of  authorship,  when  a  writer,  having  a  topic  pre- 
sented to  him,  fruitful  of  beauties  for  common  minds, 
waives  his  privilege,  and  trusts  to  the  judicious  few  for 
understanding  the  reason  of  his  abstinence.  What  a 
pudder  would  a  common  dramatist  have  raised  here  of  a 
reconciliation -scene,  a  perfect  recognition,  between  the 
assumed  Caius  and  his  master  ! — to  the  suffusing  of  many 
fair  eyes,  and  the  moistening  of  cambric  handkerchiefs. 
The  old  dying  king  partially  catching  at  the  truth,  and 
immediately  lapsing  into  obliviousness,  with  the  high- 
minded  carelessness  of  the  other  to  have  his  services 
appreciated, — as  one  that — 

"Served  not  for  gain, 
Or  followed  out  of  form," — 


TABLE-TALK  AND  FRAGMENTS  OF  CRITICISM.       355 

are  among  the  most  judicious,  not  to  say  heart-touching, 
strokes  in  Shakspeare. 

Allied  to  this  magnanimity  it  is,  where  the  pith  and 
point  of  an  argument,  the  amplification  of  which  might 
compromise  the  modesty  of  the  speaker,  is  delivered 
briefly,  and,  as  it  were,  parenthetically;  as  in  those  few 
but  pregnant  words,  in  which  the  man  in  the  old 
"Nut-brown  Maid"  rather  intimates  than  reveals  his 
unsuspecting  high  birth  to  the  woman  : — 

"Now  understand,  to  Westmoreland, 
Which  is  my  heritage, 
I  will  you  bring,  and  with  a  ring, 
By  way  of  marriage, 
I  will  you  take,  and  lady  make." 

Turn  we  to  the  version  of  it,  ten  times  diluted,  of 
dear  Mat.  Prior, — in  his  own  way  unequalled,  and  a  poet 
now-a-days  too  much  neglected.  "  In  me,"  quoth  Henry, 
addressing  the  astounded  Emma, — with  a  flourish  and  an 
attitude,  as  we  may  conceive, — 

"  In  me  behold  the  potent  Edgar's  heir, 
Illustrious  earl !  him  terrible  in  war, 
Let  Loire  confess." 

And  with  a  deal  of  skimble-skamble  stuff,  as  Hotspur 
would  term  it,  more,  presents  the  lady  with  a  full  and 
true  enumeration  of  his  papa's  rent-roll  in  the  fat  soil  by 
Deva. 

But,  of  all  parentheses  (not  to  quit  the  topic  too 
suddenly),  commend  me  to  that  most  significant  one,  at 
the  commencement  of  the  old  popular  ballad  of  "Fair 
Rosamond  :" — 

"When  good  King  Henry  ruled  this  land, 
The  second  of  that  name," 


Now  mark, — 

"(I 
A 

There  is  great  virtue  in  this  besides. 


(Besides  the  Queen)  he  dearly  loved 
A  fair  and  comely  dame." 


356      TABLE-TALK  AND  FRAGMENTS  OF  CRITICISM. 

THE  different  way  in  which  the  same  story  may  be 
told  by  different  persons  was  never  more  strikingly  illus- 
trated than  by  the  manner  in  which  the  celebrated  Jeremy 
Collier  has  described  the  effects  of  Tiiuotheus'  music  upon 
Alexander,  in  the  second  part  of  his  Essays.  We  all 
know  how  Dryden  has  treated  the  subject.  Let  us  now 
hear  his  great  contemporary  and  antagonist :  "Timotheus, 
a  Grecian,"  says  Collier,  "  was  so  great  a  master,  that  he 
could  make  a  man  storm  and  swagger  like  a  tempest ; 
and  then,  by  altering  the  notes  and  the  time,  he  could 
take  him  down  again,  and  sweeten  his  humour  in  a  trice. 
One  time,  when  Alexander  was  at  dinner,  the  man  played 
him  a  Phrygian  air.  The  prince  immediately  rises, 
snatches  up  his  lance,  and  puts  himself  into  a  posture  of 
fighting ;  and  the  retreat  was  no  sooner  sounded  by  the 
change  of  the  harmony,  but  his  arms  were  grounded,  and 
his  fire  extinct ;  and  he  sat  down  as  orderly  as  if  he  had 
come  from  one  of  Aristotle's  lectures.  I  warrant  you, 
Demosthenes  would  have  been  flourishing  about  such 
business  a  long  hour,  and  may  be  not  have  done  it  neither. 
But  Timotheus  had  a  nearer  cut  to  the  soul :  he  could 
neck  a  passion  at  a  stroke,  and  lay  it  asleep.  Pythagoras 
once  met  with  a  parcel  of  drunken  fellows,  who  were  likely 
to  be  troublesome  enough.  He  presently  orders  music  to 
play  grave,  and  chops  into  a  Dorian.  Upon  this  they 
all  threw  away  their  garlands,  and  were  as  sober  and  as 
shamefaced  as  one  would  wish."  It  is  evident  that 
Dryden  in  his  inspired  ode,  and  Collier  in  all  this  pudder 
of  prose,  meant  the  same  thing.  But  what  a  work  does 
the  latter  make  with  his  "necking  a  passion  at  his 
stroke,"  "  making  a  man  storm  and  swagger  like  a 
tempest,"  and  then  "  taking  him  down,  and  sweeting  his 
humour  in  a  trice  " !  What  in  Dryden  is  "  softly  sweet  in 
Lydian  measures,"  Collier  calls  "  chopping  into  a  Dorian." 
This  Collier  was  the  same,  who,  in  his  Biographical 
Dictionary,  says  of  Shakspeare,  that  "  though  his  genius 
generally  was  jocular,  and  inclining  to  festivity,  yet  he 
could  when  he  pleased  be  as  serious  as  anybody" 


TABLE-TALK  AND  FRAGMENTS  OF  CRITICISM.        357 

Oh  the  comfort  of  sitting  down  heartily  to  an  old  folio, 
and  thinking  surely  that  the  next  hour  or  two  will  be 
your  own  ! — and  the  misery  of  being  defeated  by  the 
useless  call  of  somebody,  who  is  come  to  tell  you  that  he 
has  just  come  from  hearing  Mr.  Irving  !  What  is  that 
to  you1?  Let  him  go  home,  and  digest  what  the  good 
man  has  said.  You  are  at  your  chapel,  in  your  oratory. 

My  friend  Hume  (not  M.P.)  has  a  curious  manuscript 
in  his  possession,  the  original  draught  of  the  celebrated 
"  Beggar's  Petition "  (who  cannot  say  by  heart  the 
"Beggar's  Petition"?)  as  it  was  written  by  some  school- 
usher  (as  I  remember),  with  corrections  interlined  from 
the  pen  of  Oliver  Goldsmith.  As  a  specimen  of  the 
doctor's  improvement,  I  recollect  one  most  judicious 
alteration : — 

"A  pampered  menial  drove  me  from  the  door," 
It  stood  originally, — 

"  A  livery  servant  drove  me,"  etc. 

Here  is  an  instance  of  poetical  or  artificial  language 
properly  substituted  for  the  phrase  of  common  conversa- 
tion ;  against  Wordsworth. 

Our  ancestors,  the  noble  old  Puritans  of  Cromwell's 
day.  could  distinguish  between  a  day  of  religious  rest  and 
a  day  of  recreation ;  and  while  they  exacted  a  vigorous 
abstinence  from  all  amusements  (even  to  walking  out 
of  nursery-maids  with  their  charges  in  the  fields)  upon 
the  Sabbath,  in  lieu  of  the  superstitious  observance  of 
the  saints'  clays,  which  they  abrogated,  they  humanely 
gave  to  the  apprentices  and  poorer  sort  of  people  every 
alternate  Thursday  for  a  day  of  entire  sport  and  recre- 
ation. A  strain  of  piety  and  policy  to  be  commended 
above  the  profane  mockery  of  the  Stuarts  and  their 
M  Book  of  Sports." 

I  was  once  amused — there  is  a  pleasure  in  affecting 
affectation  —  at  the  indignation  of  a  crowd  that  was 


358      TABLE-TALK  AND  FRAGMENTS  OF  CRITICISM. 

justling  in  with  me  at  the  pit-door  of  Covent  Garden 
Theatre  to  have  a  sight  of  Master  Betty — then  at  once 
in  his  dawn  and  his  meridian — in  Hamlet.  I  had  been 
invited  quite  unexpectedly  to  join  a  party  whom  I  met 
near  the  door  of  the  play-house ;  and  I  happened  to  have 
in  my  hand  a  large  octavo  of  Johnson  and  Steevens' 
"  Shakspeare,"  which,  the  time  not  admitting  of  my 
carrying  it  home,  of  course  went  with  me  to  the  theatre. 
Just  in  the  very  heat  and  pressure  of  the  doors  opening, 
— the  rush,  as  they  term  it, — I  deliberately  held  the 
volume  over  my  head,  open  at  the  scene  in  which  the 
young  Roscius  had  been  most  cried  up,  and  quietly  read 
by  the  lamplight.  The  clamour  became  universal.  "  The 
affectation  of  the  fellow!"  cried  one.  "Look  at  that 
gentleman  reading,  papa !"  squeaked  a  young  lady,  who, 
in  her  admiration  of  the  novelty,  almost  forgot  her  fears. 
I  read  on.  "  He  ought  to  have  his  book  knocked  out  of 
his  hand  ! "  exclaimed  a  pursy  cit,  whose  arms  were  too 
fast  pinioned  to  his  side  to  suffer  him  to  execute  his  kind 
intention.  Still  I  read  on,  and,  till  the  time  came  to 
pay  my  money,  kept  as  unmoved  as  Saint  Anthony  at 
his  holy  offices,  with  the  satyrs,  apes,  and  hobgoblins 
moping,  and  making  mouths  at  him,  in  the  picture ; 
while  the  good  man  sits  as  undisturbed  at  the  sight  as  if 
he  were  sole  tenant  of  the  desert.  The  individual  rabble 
(I  recognised  more  than  one  of  their  ugly  faces)  had 
damned  a  slight  piece  of  mine  but  a  few  nights  since ; 
and  I  was  determined  the  culprits  should  not  a  second 
time  put  me  out  of  countenance. 

"We  are  too  apt  to  indemnify  ourselves  for  some  char- 
acteristic excellence  we  are  kind  enough  to  concede  to  a 
great  author  by  denying  him  every  thing  else.  Thus 
Donne  and  Cowley,  by  happening  to  possess  more  wit, 
and  faculty  of  illustration,  than  other  men,  are  supposed 
to  have  been  incapable  of  nature  or  feeling :  they  are 
usually  opposed  to  such  writers  as  Shenstone  and  Parnell ; 
whereas,  in  the  very  thickest  of  their  conceits, — in  the 


TABLE-TALK  AND  FRAGMENTS  OF  CRITICISM.       359 

bewildering  mazes  of  tropes  and  figures, — a  warmth  of 
soul  and  generous  feeling  shines  through,  the  "sum" 
of  which,  "forty  thousand"  of  those  natural  poets,  as 
they  are  called,  "  with  all  their  quantity,"  could  not 
make  up. 

"Pray  God,  your  honour  relieve  me,"  said  a  poor 

beads- woman  to  my  friend  L one  day  :  "I  have  seen 

better  days." — "So  have  I,  my  good  woman,"  retorted 
he,  looking  up  at  the  welkin,  which  was  just  then  threaten- 
ing a  storm  ;  and  the  jest  (he  will  have  it)  was  as  good 
to  the  beggar  as  a  tester. 

It  was,  at  all  events,  kinder  than  consigning  her  to 
the  stocks  or  the  parish  beadle. 

But  L has  a  way  of  viewing  things  in  a  para- 
doxical light  on  some  occasions. 

I  have  in  my  possession  a  curious  volume  of  Latin 
verses,  which  I  believe  to  be  unique.  It  is  entitled. 
Alexandri  Fultoni  Scoti  Epigrammatorum  libri  quinque, 
It  purports  to  be  printed  at  Perth,  and  bears  date  1679. 
By  the  appellation  which  the  author  gives  himself  in  the 
preface,  hypodidascidus,  I  suppose  him  to  have  been  an 
usher  at  some  school.  It  is  no  uncommon  thing  now-a- 
days  for  persons  concerned  in  academies  to  affect  a  literary 
reputation  in  the  way  of  their  trade.  The  "  master  of  a 
seminary  for  a  limited  number  of  pupils  at  Islington  " 
lately  put  forth  an  edition  of  that  scarce  tract,  "  The 
Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard  "  (to  use  his  own  words), 
with  notes  and  headlines  !  But  to  our  author.  These 
epigrams  of  Alexander  Fulton,  Scotchman,  have  little 
remarkable  in  them  besides  extreme  dulness  and  insipidity; 
but  there  is  one,  which,  by  its  being  marshalled  in  the 
front  of  the  volume,  seems  to  have  been  the  darling  of 
its  parent,  and  for  its  exquisite  flatness,  and  the  surpris- 
ing strokes  of  an  anachronism  with  which  it  is  pointed, 
deserves  to  be  rescued  from  oblivion.  It  is  addressed, 
like  many  of  the  others  to  a  fair  one  : — 


360      TABLE-TALK  AND  FRAGMENTS  OF  CRITICISM. 

AD  MARIULAM  SUAM  AUTOR. 

"  Miserunt  bella  olim  Helenas  decor  atque  venustas 
Europen  inter  frugiferamque  Asiain. 
Tarn  boua,  quam  tu,  tain  prudens,  sin  ilia  fuisset, 
Ad  lites  isseut  Africa  et  America  ! " 

Which,  in  humble  imitation  of  mine  author's  peculiar 
poverty  of  style,  I  have  ventured  thus  to  render  into 
English : — 

THE  AUTHOR  TO  HIS  MOGGY. 

"For  Love's  illustrious  cause,  and  Helen's  charms, 
All  Europe  and  all  Asia  rushed  to  arms. 
Had  she  with  these  thy  polished  sense  combined, 
All  Afric  and  America  had  joined  ! " 

The  happy  idea  of  an  American  war  undertaken  in 
the  cause  of  beauty  ought  certainly  to  recommend  the 
author's  memory  to  the  countrymen  of  Madison  and 
Jefferson ;  and  the  bold  anticipation  of  the  discovery  of 
that  continent  in  the  time  of  the  Trojan  War  is  a  flight 
beyond  the  Sibyl's  books. 


ELIA  TO  HIS  CORRESPONDENTS. 

A  WRITER,  whose  real  name,  it  seems,  is  £oldero,  but 
who  has  been  entertaining  the  town  for  the  last  twelve 
months  with  some  very  pleasant  lucubrations  under  the 
assumed  signature  of  Leigh  Hunt,1  in  his  "Indicator" 
of  the  31st  January  last  has  thought  fit  to  insinuate 
that  I,  Elia,  do  not  write  the  little  sketches  which  bear 
my  signature  in  this  magazine,  but  that  the  true  author 

of  them  is  a  Mr.  L b.  Observe  the  critical  period 

at  which  he  has  chosen  to  impute  the  calumny, — on 
the  very  eve  of  the  publication  of  our  last  number, — 
affording  no  scope  for  explanation  for  a  full  month ; 
during  which  time  I  must  needs  lie  writhing  and  tossing 
under  the  cruel  imputation  of  nonentity.  Good  Heavens  ! 
that  a  plain  man  must  not  be  allowed  to  be — 

They  call  this  an  age  of  personality ;  but  surely  this 
spirit  of  anti-personality  (if  I  may  so  express  it)  is  some- 
thing worse. 

Take  away  my  moral  reputation, — I  may  live  to 
discredit  that  calumny;  injure  my  literary  fame, — I 
may  write  that  up  again :  but,  when  a  gentleman  is 
robbed  of  his  identity,  where  is  he  ? 

Other  murderers  stab  but  at  our  existence,  a  frail 
and  perishing  trifle  at  the  best :  but  here  is  an  assassin 
who  aims  at  our  very  essence ;  who  not  only  forbids  us  to 

1  Clearly  a  fictitious  appellation  ;  for,  if  we  admit  the  latter  of 
these  names  to  be  in  a  manner  English,  what  is  Leigh  ?  Christian 
nomenclature  knows  no  such. 


362  ELIA  TO  HIS  CORRESPONDENTS. 

be  any  longer,  but  to  have  been  at  all.     Let  our  ancestors 
look  to  it. 

Is  the  parish  register  nothing?  Is  the  house  in 
Princes  Street,  Cavendish  Square,  where  we  saw  the 
light  six  and  forty  years  ago,  nothing  ?  Were  our  pro- 
genitors from  stately  Genoa,  where  we  flourished  four 
centuries  back,  before  the  barbarous  name  of  Boldero1 
was  known  to  a  European  mouth,  nothing1?  Was  the 
goodly  scion  of  our  name,  transplanted  into  England 
in  the  reign  of  the  seventh  Henry,  nothing?  Are  the 
archives  of  the  steelyard,  in  succeeding  reigns  (if  haply 
they  survive  the  fury  of  our  envious  enemies),  showing 
that  we  flourished  in  prime  repute,  as  merchants,  down 
to  the  period  of  the  Commonwealth,  nothing  ! 

"Why,  then  the  world,  and  all  that's  in't,  is  nothing ; 
The  covering  sky  is  nothing ;  Bohemia  nothing." 

I  am  ashamed  that  this  trifling  writer  should  have 
power  to  move  me  so. 


A  CORRESPONDENT,  who  writes  himself  Peter  Ball,  or 
Bell, — for  his  handwriting  is  as  ragged  as  his  manners, — 
admonishes  me  of  the  old  saying,  that  some  people  (under 
a  courteous  periphrasis,  I  slur  his  less  ceremonious  epithet) 
had  need  have  good  memories.  In  my  "  Old  Benchers  of 
the  Inner  Temple,"  I  have  delivered  myself,  and  truly,  a 
Templar  born.  Bell  clamours  upon  this,  and  thinketh  that 
he  hath  caught  a  fox.  It  seems  that  in  a  former  paper, 
retorting  upon  a  weekly  scribbler  who  had  called  my  good 
identity  in  question  (see  Postscript  to  my  "  Chapter  on 
Ears "),  I  profess  myself  a  native  of  some  spot  near 
Cavendish  Square,  deducing  my  remoter  origin  from  Italy. 
But  who  does  not  see,  except  this  tinkling  cymbal,  that,  in, 
that  idle  fiction  of  Genoese  ancestry,  I  was  answering  a 

1  It  is  clearly  ol  Transatlantic  origin. 


ELIA  TO  HIS  CORRESPONDENTS.  363 

fool  according  to  his  folly, — that  Elia  there  expresseth 
himself  ironically  as  to  an  approved  slanderer,  who  hath 
no  right  to  the  truth,  and  can  be  no  fit  recipient  of  it  ? 
Such  a  one  it  is  usual  to  leave  to  his  delusions ;  or, 
leading  him  from  error  still  to  contradictory  error,  to 
plunge  him  (as  we  say)  deeper  in  the  mire,  and  give  him 
line  till  he  suspend  himself.  No  understanding  reader 
could  be  imposed  upon  by  such  obvious  rodomontade  to 
suspect  me  for  an  alien,  or  believe  me  other  than 
English. 

To  a  second  correspondent,  who  signs  himself  "A 
Wiltshire  Man,"  and  claims  me  for  a  countryman  upon 
the  strength  of  an  equivocal  phrase  in  my  "  Christ's 
Hospital,"  a  more  mannerly  reply  is  due.  Passing  over 
the  Genoese  fable,  which  Bell  makes  such  a  ring  about, 
he  nicely  detects  a  more  subtle  discrepancy,  which  Bell 
was  too  obtuse  to  strike  upon.  Referring  to  the  passage, 
I  must  confess,  that  the  term  "  native  town,"  applied  to 
Calne,  primd  facie  seems  to  bear  out  the  construction 
which  my  friendly  correspondent  is  willing  to  put  upon 
it.  The  context  too,  I  am  afraid,  a  little  favours  it. 
But  where  the  words  of  an  author,  taken  literally,  com- 
pared with  some  other  passage  in  his  writings,  admitted 
to  be  authentic,  involve  a  palpable  contradiction,  it  hath 
been  the  custom  of  the  ingenuous  commentator  to  smooth 
the  difficulty  by  the  supposition  that  in  the  one  case  an 
allegorical  or  tropical  sense  was  chiefly  intended.  So, 
by  the  word  "native,"  I  may  be  supposed  to  mean  a 
town  where  I  might  have  been  born,  or  where  it  might 
be  desirable  that  I  should  have  been  born,  as  being  situate 
in  wholesome  air,  upon  a  dry,  chalky  soil,  in  which  I 
delight ;  or  a  town  with  the  inhabitants  of  which  I  passed 
some  weeks,  a  summer  or  two  ago,  so  agreeably,  that 
they  and  it  became  in  a  manner  native  to  me.  Without 
some  such  latitude  of  interpretation  in  the  present  case, 
I  see  not  how  we  can  avoid  falling  into  a  gross  error  in 
physics,  as  to  conceive  that  a  gentleman  may  be  born  in  two 
places,  from  which  all  modern  and  ancient  testimony  is 


364  ELIA  TO  HIS  CORRESPONDENTS. 

alike  abhorrent.  Bacchus  coraeth  the  nearest  to  it,  whom 
I  remember  Ovid  to  have  honoured  with  the  epithet 
"twice  born."1  But,  not  to  mention  that  he  is  so  called 
(we  conceive)  in  reference  to  the  places  whence  rather 
than  the  places  where  he  was  delivered, — for,  by  either 
birth,  he  may  probably  be  challenged  for  a  Theban, — in 
a  strict  way  of  speaking,  he  was  a  filius  femoris  by  no 
means  in  the  same  sense  as  he  had  been  before  a  Jilius 
alvi ;  for  that  latter  was  but  a  secondary  and  tralatitious 
way  of  being  born,  and  he  but  a  denizen  of  the  second 
house  of  his  geuiture.  Thus  much  by  way  of  explanation 
was  thought  due  to  the  courteous  "  Wiltshire  Man." 

To  "  Indagator,"  "  Investigator,"  "  Incertus,"  and  the 
rest  of  the  pack,  that  are  so  importunate  about  the  true 
localities  of  his  birth, — as  if,  forsooth,  Elia  were  presently 
about  to  be  passed  to  his  parish, — to  all  such  church- 
warden critics  he  answereth,  that,  any  explanation  here 
given  notwithstanding,  he  hath  not  so  fixed  his  nativity 
(like  a  rusty  vaue)  to  one  dull  spot,  but  that,  if  he  seeth 
occasion,  or  the  argument  shall  demand  it,  he  will  be 
born  again,  in  future  papers,  in  whatever  place,  and  at 
whatever  period,  shall  seem  good  unto  him. 
*'  Mod6  me  Thebis,  modo  Athenis. " 

1 "  Imperfectus  adhuc  infans  genetricis  ab  alvo 
Eripitur  patiioque  tener  (si  credere  dignum) 
Insuitur  feiuori.  .  .  . 
Tutaque  bis  geniti  sunt  incunabula  Bacchi." 

Metamorph . ,  lib.  iii. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  COLEEIDGE. 

WHEN  I  heard  of  the  death  of  Coleridge,  it  was  without 
grief.  It  seemed  to  me  that  he  long  had  been  on  the 
confines  of  the  next  world, — that  he  had  a  hunger  for 
eternity.  I  grieved  then  that  I  could  not  grieve.  But, 
since,  I  feel  how  great  a  part  he  was  of  me.  His  great 
and  dear  spirit  haunts  me.  I  cannot  think  a  thought,  I 
cannot  make  a  criticism  on  men  and  books,  without  an 
ineffectual  turning  and  reference  to  him.  He  was  the 
proof  and  touchstone  of  all  my  cogitations.  He  was  a 
Grecian  (or  in  the  first  form)  at  Christ's  Hospital,  where 
I  was  Deputy-Grecian ;  and  the  same  subordination  and 
deference  to  him  I  have  preserved  through  a  life-long 
acquaintance.  Great  in  his  writings,  he  was  greatest  in 
his  conversation.  In  him  was  disproved  that  old  maxim, 
that  we  should  allow  every  one  his  share  of  talk.  He 
would  talk  from  morn  to  dewy  eve,  nor  cease  till  far 
midnight ;  yet  who  ever  would  interrupt  him  ?  who  would 
obstruct  that  continuous  flow  of  converse,  fetched  from 
Helicon  or  Zion  1  He  had  the  tact  of  making  the  unintel- 
ligible seem  plain.  Many  who  read  the  abstruser  parts 
of  his  "  Friend  "  would  complain  that  his  words  did  not 
answer  to  his  spoken  wisdom.  They  were  identical  But 
he  had  a  tone  in  oral  delivery  which  seemed  to  convey 
sense  to  those  who  were  otherwise  imperfect  recipients. 
He  was  my  fifty -years -old  friend  without  a  dissension. 
Never  saw  I  his  likeness,  nor  probably  the  world  can  see 
again.  I  seem  to  love  the  house  he  died  at  more  passion- 


366       ON  THE  DEATH  OF  COLERIDGE. 

ately  than  when  he  lived.  I  love  the  faithful  Gillmans 
more  than  while  they  exercised  their  virtues  towards  him 
living.  What  was  his  mansion  is  consecrated  to  me  a 
chapel 

EDMONTON,  Nov.  21,  1834. 


PEOLOGUES,  EPILOGUES,  AND 
MISCELLANEOUS  VEESK 

PKOLOGUE  TO  COLERIDGE'S  TRAGEDY  OF 
"  REMORSE." 

THERE  are,  I  am  told,  who  sharply  criticise 

Our  modern  theatres'  unwieldy  size. 

We  players  shall  scarce  plead  guilty  to  that  charge, 

Who  think  a  house  can  never  be  too  large  : 

Grieved  when  a  rant,  that's  worth  a  nation's  ear, 

Shakes  some  prescribed  Lyceum's  petty  sphere ; 

And  pleased  to  mark  the  grin  from  space  to  space 

Spread  epidemic  o'er  a  town's  broad  face. 

O  might  old  Betterton  or  Booth  return 

To  view  our  structures  from  their  silent  urn, 

Could  Quin  come  stalking  from  Elysian  glades, 

Or  Garrick  get  a  day-rule  from  the  shades, 

Where  now,  perhaps,  in  mirth  which  spirits  approve, 

He  imitates  the  ways  of  men  above, 

And  apes  the  actions  of  our  upper  coast, 

As  in  his  days  of  flesh  he  play'd  the  ghost : 

How  might  they  bless  our  ampler  scope  to  please, 

And  hate  their  own  old  shrunk-up  audiences. 

Their  houses  yet  were  palaces  to  those 

Which  Ben  and  Fletcher  for  their  triumphs  chose. 

Shakespeare,  who  wish'd  a  kingdom  for  a  stage, 

Like  giant  pent  in  disproportion'd  cage, 

Mourn'd  his  contracted  strengths  and  crippled  rage. 


368  PROLOGUES,   EPILOGUES,   ETC. 

He  who  could  tame  his  vast  ambition  down 

To  please  some  scatter'd  gleanings  of  a  town, 

And  if  some  hundred  auditors  supplied 

Their  meagre  meed  of  claps,  was  satisfied, 

How  had  he  felt,  when  that  dread  curse  of  Lear's 

Had  burst  tremendous  on  a  thousand  ears, 

While  deep-struck  wonder  from  applauding  bands 

Return'd  the  tribute  of  as  many  hands  ! 

Rude  were  his  guests ;  he  never  made  his  bow 

To  such  an  audience  as  salutes  us  now. 

He  lack'd  the  balm  of  labour,  female  praise. 

Few  ladies  in  his  time  frequented  plays, 

Or  came  to  see  a  youth  with  awkward  art 

And  shrill  sharp  pipe  burlesque  the  woman's  part. 

The  very  use,  since  so  essential  grown, 

Of  painted  scenes,  was  to  his  stage  unknown. 

The  air-blest  castle,  round  whose  wholesome  crest, 

The  martlet,  guest  of  summer,  chose  her  nest — 

The  forest  walks  of  Arden's  fair  domain, 

Where  Jaques  fed  his  solitary  vein, — 

No  pencil's  aid  as  yet  had  dared  supply, 

Seen  only  by  the  intellectual  eye. 

Those  scenic  helps,  denied  to  Shakespeare's  page, 

Our  Author  owes  to  a  more  liberal  age. 

Nor  pomp  nor  circumstance  are  wanting  here  ; 

'Tis  for  himself  alone  that  he  must  fear. 

Yet  shall  remembrance  cherish  the  just  pride, 

That  (be  the  laurel  granted  or  denied) 

He  first  essay 'd  in  this  distinguish'd  fane 

Severer  muses  and  a  tragic  strain. 


PROLOGUES,   EPILOGUES,  ETC.  369 

PROLOGUE  TO  GODWIN'S  TKAGEDY 
"ANTONIO." 

"  LADIES,  ye've  seen  how  Guzman's  consort  died, 

Poor  victim  of  a  Spanish  brother's  pride, 

When  Spanish  honour  through  the  world  was  blown, 

And  Spanish  beauty  for  the  best  was  known.1 

In  that  romantic,  unenlightened  time, 

A  bi'each  of  promise2  was  a  sort  of  crime — 

Which  of  you  handsome  English  ladies  here, 

But  deem  the  penance  bloody  and  severe  ? 

A  whimsical  old  Saragossa3  fashion, 

That  a  dead  father's  dying  inclination 

Should  live  to  thwart  a  living  daughter's  passion4 

Unjustly  on  the  sex  we5  men  exclaim, 

Rail  at  your6  vices,  and  commit  the  same ; — 

Man  is  a  promise-breaker  from  the  womb, 

And  goes  a  promise-breaker  to  the  tomb — 

What  need  we  instance  here  the  lover's  vow, 

The  sick  Man's  purpose,  or  the  great  man's  bow  t7 

The  truth  by  few  examples  best  is  shown — 

Instead  of  many  which  are  better  known, 

Take  poor  Jack  Incident,  that's  dead  and  gone. 

Jack,  of  dramatic  genius  justly  vain, 

Purchased  a  renter's  share  at  Drury  Lane ; 

A  prudent  man  in  every  other  matter, 

Known  at  his  club-room  for  an  honest  hatter ; 

Humane  and  courteous,  led  a  civil  life, 

And  has  been  seldom  known  to  beat  his  wife ; 

But  Jack  is  now  grown  quite  another  man, 

Frequents  the  green-room,  knows  the  plot  and  plan 

Of  each  new  piece, 

And  has  been  seen  to  talk  with  Sheridan  ! 
In  at  the  play-house  just  at  six  he  pops, 

1  "  Four  easy  "ines."  2  "  For  which  the  heroine  died." 

3  In  Spain  !  !  *  Two  neat  lines.  5  Or  you. 

6  Or  our,  as  tfiey  have  altered  it.  7  Antithesis  ! ! — C.  L. 

2B 


370  PROLOGUES,   EPILOGUES,  ETC. 

And  never  quits  it  till  the  curtain  drops, 
Is  never  absent  on  the  author's  night, 

Knows  actresses  and  actors  too by  sight ; 

So  humble,  that  with  Suett  he'll  confer, 

Or  take  a  pipe  with  plain  Jack  Bannister ; 

Nay,  with  an  author  has  been  known  so  free, 

He  once  suggested  a  catastrophe — 

In  short,  John  dabbled  till  his  head  was  turn'd : 

His  wife  remonstrated,  his  neighbours  mourned, 

His  customers  were  dropping  off  apace, 

And  Jack's  affairs  began  to  wear  a  piteous  face. 

One  night  his  wife  began  a  curtain  lecture : 

'  My  dearest  Johnny,  husband,  spouse,  protector, 

Take  pity  on  your  helpless  babes  and  me, 

Save  us  from  ruin,  you  from  bankruptcy — 

Look  to  your  business,  leave  these  cursed  plays, 

And  try  again  your  old  industrious  ways.' 

Jack,  who  was  always  scar'd  at  the  Gazette, 
And  had  some  bits  of  skull  uninjured  yet, 
Promis'd  amendment,  vow'd  his  wife  spake  reason, 
'  He  would  not  see  another  play  that  season.' 

Three  stubborn  fortnights  Jack  his  promise  kept, 
Was  late  and  early  in  his  shop,  eat,  slept, 
And  walk'd  and  talk'd,  like  ordinary  men ; 
No  writ,  but  John  the  hatter  once  again — 
Visits  his  club  :  when  lo  !  one  fatal  night 
His  wife  with  horror  viewed  the  well-known  sight — 
John's  hat,  wig,  snuff-box — well  she  knew  his  tricks — 
And  Jack  decamping  at  the  hour  of  six. 
Just  at  the  counter's  edge  a  playbill  lay, 
Announcing  that  '  Pizarro '  was  the  play — 
'  0  Johnny,  Johnny,  this  is  your  old  doing.' 
Quoth  Jack,  '  Why  what  the  devil  storm's  a-brewing  1 
About  a  harmless  play  why  all  this  fright  1 
I'll  go  and  see  it,  if  it's  but  for  spite — 
Zounds,  woman  !     Nelson's1  to  be  there  to-night.'" 

1  "  A  good  clap-trap.     Nelson  has  exhibited  two  or  three  times 
at  both  theatres — and  advertised  himself." — C.  L. 


PROLOGUES,   EPILOGUES,   ETC.  371 

PROLOGUE  TO  FAULKENER: 
A  TRAGEDY  BY  WILLIAM  GODWIN,  1807. 

AN  Author  who  has  given  you  all  delight 

Furnished  the  tale  our  stage  presents  to-night. 

Some  of  our  earliest  tears  he  taught  to  steal 

Down  our  young  cheeks,  and  forced  us  first  to  feeL 

To  solitary  shores  whole  years  confined, 

Who  has  not  read  how  pensive  Crusoe  pined? 

Who,  now  grown  old,  that  did  not  once  admire 

His  goat,  his  parrot,  his  uncouth  attire, 

The  stick,  due  notched,  that  told  each  tedious  day 

That  in  the  lonely  island  wore  away  ? 

Who  has  not  shuddered,  where  he  stands  aghast 

At  sight  of  human  footsteps  in  the  waste  ? 

Or  joyed  not,  when  his  trembling  hands  unbind 

Thee,  Friday,  gentlest  of  the  savage  kind  ? 

The  genius  who  conceived  that  magic  tale 

Was  skilled  by  native  pathos  to  prevail. 

His  stories,  though  rough-drawn  and  framed  in  haste, 

Had  that  which  pleased  our  homely  grandsires'  taste. 

His  was  a  various  pen,  that  freely  roved 

Into  all  subjects,  was  in  most  approved. 

Whate'er  the  theme,  his  ready  muse  obeyed — 

Love,  Courtship,  Politics,  Religion,  Trade — 

Gifted  alike  to  shine  in  every  sphere, 

Novelist,  Historian,  Poet,  Pamphleteer. 

In  some  blest  interval  of  party-strife, 

He  drew  a  striking  sketch  from  private  life, 

Whose  moving  scenes  of  intricate  distress 

We  try  to-night  in  a  dramatic  dress  : 

A  real  story  of  domestic  woe, 

That  asks  no  aid  from  music,  verse,  or  show, 

But  trusts  to  truth,  to  Nature,  and  Defoe. 


372  PROLOGUES,  EPILOGUES,  ETC. 

EPILOGUE  TO  "  THE  WIFE :  A  TALE  OF  MAN- 
TUA," BY  JAMES  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES. 

WHEN  first  our  bard  his  simple  will  express'd 
That  I  should  in  his  heroine's  robes  be  dress'd, 
My  fears  were  with  my  vanity  at  strife, 
How  I  could  act  that  untried  part — "  a  wife." 
But  Fancy  to  the  Orison  hills  me  drew 
Where  Mariana  like  a  wild-flower  grew, 
Nursing  her  garden-kindred  :  so  far  I 
Liked  her  condition,  willing  to  comply 
With  that  sweet  single  life  :  when,  with  a  cranch, 
Down  came  that  thundering,  crashing  avalanche, 
Startling  my  mountain-project  !  "  Take  this  spade," 
Said  Fancy  then,  "  dig  low,  adventurous  maid, 
For  hidden  wealth."     I  did ;  and,  Ladies,  lo  1 
Was  e'er  romantic  female's  fortune  so, 
To  dig  a  life-warm  lover  from  the  snow  1 

A  wife  and  princess  see  me  next,  beset 
With  subtle  toils,  in  an  Italian  net, 
While  knavish  courtiers,  stung  with  rage  or  fear, 
Distill'd  lip-poison  in  a  husband's  ear. 
I  ponder'd  on  the  boiling  Southern  vein ; 
Racks,  cords,  stilettoes,  rush'd  upon  my  brain  ! 
By  poor,  good,  weak  Antonio,  too,  disowned — 
I  dream'd  each  night  I  should  be  Desdemona'd, 
And,  being  in  Mantua,  thought  upon  the  shop 
Whence  fair  Verona's  youth  his  breath  did  stop : 
And  what  if  Leonardo,  in  foul  scorn, 
Some  lean  apothecary  should  suborn 
To  take  my  hated  life  ?     A  "  tortoise  "  hung 
Before  my  eyes,  and  in  my  ears  scaled  "  alligators  rung. 
But  my  Othello,  to  his  vows  more  zealous — 
Twenty  lagos  could  not  make  him  jealous  ! 

New  raised  to  reputation,  and  to  life — 
At  your  commands  behold  me,  without  strife, 
Well-pleased,  and  ready  to  repeat — the  "Wife." 


PROLOGUES,  EPILOGUES,   ETC.  373 

TO  THOMAS  STOTHARD,  R.A.,  OX  HIS  ILLUS- 
TRATIONS OF  THE  POEMS  OF  MR  ROGERS. 

CONSUMMATE  Artist,  whose  undying  name 

With  classic  Rogers  shall  go  down  to  fame, 

Be  this  thy  crowning  work  !     In  my  young  days 

How  often  have  I  with  a  child's  fond  gaze 

Pored  on  the  pictured  wonders  thou  hadst  done : 

Clarissa  mournful,  and  prim  Grandison  ! 

All  Fielding's,  Smollett's  heroes,  rose  to  view ; 

I  saw,  and  I  believed  the  phantoms  trua 

But,  above  all,  that  most  romantic  tale 

Did  o'er  my  raw  credulity  prevail, 

Where  Glums  and  Gawries  wear  mysterious  things, 

That  serve  at  once  for  jackets  and  for  wings. 

Age,  that  enfeebles  other  men's  designs, 

But  heightens  thine,  and  thy  free  draught  refines. 

In  several  ways  distinct  you  make  us  feel — 

Graceful  as  Raphael,  as  Watteau  genteel. 

Your  lights  and  shades,  as  Titianesque,  we  praise; 

And  warmly  wish  you  Titian's  length  of  days. 


TO  CLARA  K 

THE  Gods  have  made  me  most  unmusical, 

With  feelings  that  respond  not  to  the  call 

Of  stringed  harp  or  voice — obtuse  and  mute 

To  hautboy,  sackbut,  dulcimer,  and  flute ; 

King  David's  lyre,  that  made  the  madness  flee 

From  Saul,  had  been  but  a  jew's-harp  to  me  : 

Theorbos,  violins,  French  horns,  guitars, 

Leave  in  my  wounded  ears  inflicted  scars ; 

I  hate  those  trills,  and  shakes,  and  sounds  that  float 

Upon  the  captive  air  ;  I  know  no  note, 


374        PROLOGUES,  EPILOGUES,  ETC. 

Nor  ever  shall,  whatever  folks  may  say, 

Of  the  strange  mysteries  of  Sol  and  Fa  ; 

I  sit 'at  oratorios  like  a  fish, 

Incapable  of  sound,  and  only  wish 

The  thing  was  over.     Yet  do  I  admire, 

0  tuneful  daughter  of  a  tuneful  sire, 

Thy  painful  labours  in  a  science,  which 

To  your  deserts  I  pray  may  make  you  rich 

As  much  as  you  are  loved,  and  add  a  grace 

To  the  most  musical  Novello  race. 

"Women  lead  men  by  the  nose,  some  cynics  say  \ 

You  draw  them  by  the  ear — a  delicater  way. 


TO  MY  FRIEND  THE  INDICATOR. 

YOUR  easy  Essays  indicate  a  flow, 

Dear  friend,  of  brain  which  we  may  elsewhere  seek ; 

And  to  their  pages  I  and  hundreds  owe, 

That  Wednesday  is  the  sweetest  of  the  week. 

Such  observation,  wit,  and  sense,  are  shown, 

We  think  the  days  of  Bickerstaff  return'd ; 

And  that  a  portion  of  that  oil  you  own, 

In  his  undying  midnight  lamp  which  burn'd. 

I  would  not  lightly  bruise  old  Priscian's  head 

Or  wrong  the  rules  of  grammar  understood ; 

But,  with  the  leave  of  Priscian  be  it  said, 

The  Indicative  is  your  Potential  Mood. 

Wit,  poet,  prose-man,  party-man,  translator — < 

H[unt],  your  best  title  yet  is  Indicator. 


SAINT  CRISPIN  TO  MR.  GIFFORD. 

ALL  unadvised  and  in  an  evil  hour, 

Lured  by  aspiring  thoughts,  my  son,  you  daft 

The  lowly  labours  of  the  "  Gentle  Craft " 


PROLOGUES,   EPILOGUES,   ETC.  375 

For  lowly  toils,  which  blood  and  spirits  sour. 
All  things,  dear  pledge,  are  not  in  all  men's  power  j 
The  wiser  sort  of  shrub  affects  the  ground ; 
The  sweet  content  of  mind  is  oftener  found 
In  cobbler's  parlour  than  in  critic's  bower. 
The  sorest  work  is  what  doth  cross  the  grain ; 
And  better  to  this  hour  you  had  been  plying 
The  obsequious  awl,  with  well-wax'd  finger  flying, 
Than  ceaseless  thus  to  till  a  thankless  vein : 
Still  teasing  muses,  which  are  still  denying ; 
Making  a  stretching-leather  of  your  brain. 

St.  Crispin's  Eve. 

IN  TABULAM  EXIMII  PICTOEIS  B.  B.  HAYDONI  IN  QUA 
JUDAEI  ADVEXIENTE  DOMINO  PALMAS  IN  VIA 
PEOSTERNENTES  MIBA  ARTE  DEPINGUNTUR. 

QUID  vult  Iste  Equitans  ?  et  quid  velit  ista  virorum 
Palinifera  ingens  turba  et  vox  tremebunda  Hosauna  1 
Hosanna  Christo  semper,  semperque  canamus. 
Palma  fuit  senior  Pictor  celeberrimus  olim  ; 
Sed  palmam  cedat,  modo  si  foret  ille  superstes 
Palma  Haydone  tibi :  tu  palmas  omnibus  aufers. 
Palma  negata  macrum,  donataque  reddit  opimum 
Si  simul  incipiat  cum  fama  increscere  corpus 
Tu  cito  pinguesces,  ties  et,  amicule,  obesus. 
Afiectant  lauros  pictores  atque  poeta3, 
Sin  laurum  invideant  (sed  quis  tibi  ?)  laurigerentes 
Pro  lauro  palma  viridanti  tempora  cinge. 

Carolagnulus. 

TRANSLATION  OF  THE  ABOVE, 

WHAT  rider's  that?  and  who  those  myriads  bringing 
Him  on  his  way,  with  palms,  Hosanna  singing? 
Hosanna  to  Christ !    Heaven,  Earth,  shall  still  be  ringing. 


376  PROLOGUES,  EPILOGUES,  ETC. 

In  days  of  old,  Old  Palma  won  renown  : 

But  Palma's  self  must  yield  the  painter's  crown, 

Haydon,  to  thee  :  Thy  palms  put  every  other  down, 

If  Flaccus'  sentence  with  the  truth  agree, 
That  palms  awarded  make  men  plump  to  be, 
Friend  Horace,  Haydon  soon  shall  match  in  bulk  with 
thee. 

Painters  with  poets  for  the  laurel  vie ; 

But  should  the  laureate  band  thy  claims  deny, 

Wear  thou  thine  own  green  palm,  Haydon,  triumphantly. 


POLITICAL  SQUIBS,  EPIGRAMS,  ETC. 

TO  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSR 

THOUGH  thou'rt  like  Judas,  an  apostate  black, 
In  the  resemblance  one  thing  thou  dost  lack ; 
When  he  had  gotten  his  ill-purchased  pelf, 
He  went  away,  and  wisely  hanged  himself. 
This  thou  may'st  do  at  last ;  yet  much  I  doubt, 
If  thou  hast  any  bowels  to  gush  out ! 


HE  TRIUMPH  OF  THE  WHALE. 

lo  !  Paean  !     lo  !  sing, 
To  the  finny  people's  king. 
Not  a  mightier  whale  than  this 
In  the  vast  Atlantic  is  ; 
Not  a  fatter  fish  than  he 
Flounders  round  the  Polar  sea. 
See  his  blubber ! — at  his  gills 
What  a  world  of  drink  he  swills  ! 
From  his  trunk,  as  from  a  spout, 
Which  next  moment  he  pours  out. 

Such  his  person. — Next  declare, 
Muse,  who  his  companions  are  :— 
Every  fish  of  generous  kind 
Scuds  aside,  or  slinks  behind : 
But  about  his  presence  keep 
All  the  monsters  of  the  deep  ; 


378  POLITICAL  SQUIBS,  EPIGRAMS,  ETC. 

Mermaids,  with  their  tails  and  singing, 
His  delighted  fancy  stinging ; 
Crooked  dolphins,  they  surround  him ; 
Dog-like  seals,  they  fawn  around  him ; 
Following  hard,  the  progress  mark 
Of  the  intolerant  salt-sea  shark : 
For  his  solace  and  relief 
Flat  fish  are  his  courtiers  chief; 
Last,  and  lowest  in  his  train, 
Ink-fish  (libellers  of  the  main) 
Their  black  liquor  shed  in  spite  : 
(Such  on  earth  the  things  that  write.') 
In  his  stomach,  some  do  say, 
No  good  thing  can  ever  stay : 
Had  it  been  the  fortune  of  it 
To  have  swallow'd  that  old  prophet, 
Three  days  there  he'd  not  have  dwell'd, 
But  in  one  have  been  expell'd. 
Hapless  mariners  are  they, 
Who  beguiled  (as  seamen  say) 
Deeming  him  some  rock  or  island, 
Footing  sure,  safe  spot,  and  dry  land, 
Anchor  in  his  scaly  rind — 
Soon  the  difference  they  find ; 
Sudden,  plumb  !  he  sinks  beneath  them, 
Does  to  ruthless  seas  bequeath  them  1 

Name  or  title  what  has  he  1 
Is  he  Regent  of  the  Sea  ? 
From  this  difficulty  free  us, 
Buffon,  Banks,  or  sage  Linnaeus. 
With  his  wondrous  attributes 
Say  what  appellation  suits  1 
By  his  bulk,  and  by  his  ske, 
By  his  oily  qualities, 
This  (or  else  my  eyesight  fails), 
This  should  be  the  Prince  of  WAalea. 

R.  ET 


POLITICAL  SQUIBS,  EPIGRAMS,  ETC..  379 

THE  THREE  GRAVES. 

CLOSE  by  the  ever-burning  brimstone  beds 
Where  Bedloe,  Gates,  and  Judas  hide  their  heads, 
I  saw  great  Satan  like  a  Sextou  stand 
With  his  intolerable  spade  in  hand 
Digging  three  graves.     Of  coffin  shape  they  were, 
For  those  who  coffinless  must  enter  there 
With  uublest  rites.     The  shrouds  were  of  that  cloth 
Which  Clotho  weaveth  in  her  blackest  wrath  : 
The  dismal  tinct  oppress'd  the  eye  that  dwelt 
Upon  it  long,  like  darkness  to  be  felt. 
The  pillows  to  these  baleful  beds  were  toads, 
Large,  living,  livid,  melancholy  loads, 
Whose  softness  shock'd.     Worms  of  all  monstrous  size 
Crawl'd  round ;  and  one,  upcoil'd,  which  never  dies. 
A  doleful  bell,  inculcating  despair, 
Was  always  ringing  in  the  heavy  air; 
And  all  about  the  detestable  pit 
Strange  headless  ghosts,  and  quarter'd  forms  did  flit ; 
Rivers  of  blood  from  dripping  traitors  spilt, 
By  treachery  slung  from  poverty  to  guilt. 
I  ask'd  the  fiend  for  whom  those  rites  were  meant  1 
"  These  graves,"  quoth  he,  "  when  life's  brief  oil  is  spent, 
When  the  dark  night  comes,  and  they're  sinking  bed- 
wards, 
I  mean  for  Castles,  Oliver,  and  Edwards." 

R.  ET  R. 
t 

EPIGRAM. 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  LAST  REIGN. 

YE  Politicians,  tell  me,  pray, 

Why  thus  with  woe  and  care  rent  ? 

This  is  the  worst  that  you  can  say, 

Some  wind  has  blown  the  Wig  away, 

And  left  the  Hair  Apparent.  R.  ET  R. 


380  POLITICAL  SQUIBS,   EPIGRAMS,  ETC. 

LINES. 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  SIGHT  OF  WALTHAM  CROSS. 

POINT  still  the  spots,  to  hallow'd  wedlock  dear, 
Where  rested  on  its  solemn  way  the  bier, 
That  bore  the  bones  of  Edward's  Elinor 
To  mix  with  Royal  dust  at  Westminster. — 
Far  different  rites  did  thee  to  dust  consign, 
Duke  Brunswick's  daughter,  princely  Caroline, 
A  hurried  funeral,  and  a  banish'd  grave, 
High-minded  wife  !  were  all  that  thou  couldst  have. 
Grieve  not,  great  ghost,  nor  count  in  death  thy  losses ; 
Thou  in  thy  life-time  had'st  thy  share  of  crosses. 

"ONE  DIP." 

MUCH  speech  obscures  the  sense  ;  the  soul  of  wit 

Is  brevity  :  our  tale  one  proof  of  it. 

Poor  Balbulus,  a  stammering  invalid, 

Consults  the  doctors,  and  by  them  is  bid 

To  try  sea-bathing,  with  this  special  heed, 

"  One  dip  was  all  his  malady  did  need  ; 

More  than  that  one  his  certain  death  would  be." 

Now  who  so  nervous  or  so  shook  as  he, 

For  Balbulus  had  never  dipped  before  ? 

Two  well-known  dippers,  at  the  Broadstairs'  shore, 

Stout  sturdy  churls,  have  stript  him  to  the  skin, 

And  naked,  cold,  and  shivering  plunge  him  in. 

Soon  he  emerges  with  scarce  breath  to  say, 

"  I'm  to  be  dip-dip-dipt ."     "  We  know  it,"  they 

Reply.     Expostulation  seemed  in  vain, 
And  over  ears  they  souse  him  in  again ; 
And  up  again  he  rises ;  Iris  words  trip, 
And  falter  as  before,  Still  "  dip-dip-dip  " — 
And  in  he  goes  again  with  furious  plunge, 
Once  more  to  rise ;  when  with  a  desperate  lunge 


POLITICAL  SQUIBS,   EPIGRAMS,   ETC.  381 

At  length  he  bolts  these  words  out,  "  only  once  f" 
The  villains  crave  his  pardon.     Had  the  dunce 
But  aimed  at  these  bare  words  the  rogues  had  found  him  ; 
But  striving  to  be  prolix,  they  half-drowned  him. 

H Y. 


SATAN  IN  SEARCH  OF  A  WIFE. 

DEDICATION. 

To  delicate  bosoms,  that  have  sighed  over  the  Loves  of  the  Angels, 
this  poem  is  with  tenderest  regard  consecrated.  It  can  be  no  offence 
to  you,  dear  ladies,  that  the  author  has  endeavoured  to  extend  the 
dominion  of  your  darling  passion ;  to  show  love  triumphant  in 
places,  to  which  his  advent  has  been  never  yet  suspected.  If  one 
Cecilia  drew  ati  Angel  down,  another  may  have  leave  to  attract  a 
spirit  upwards  ;  which,  I  am  sure,  was  the  most  desperate  adventure 
of  the  two.  Wonder  not  at  the  inferior  condition  of  the  agent ;  for,  if 
King  Cophetua  wooed  a  beggar-maid,  a  greater  king  need  not  scorn 
to  confess  the  attractions  of  a  fair  tailor's  daughter.  The  more 
disproportionate  the  rank,  the  more  signal  is  the  glory  of  your  sex. 
Like  that  of  Hecate,  a  triple  empire  is  now  confessed  your  own. 
Nor  Heaven,  nor  Earth,  nor  deepest  tracts  of  Erebus,  as  Milton  hath 
it,  have  power  to  resist  your  sway.  I  congratulate  your  last  victory. 
You  have  fairly  made  an  honest  man  of  the  Old  One  ;  and,  if  your 
conquest  is  late,  the  success  must  be  salutary.  The  new  Benedick 
has  employment  enough  on  his  hands  to  desist  from  dabbling  with 
the  affairs  of  poor  mortals  ;  he  may  fairly  leave  human  nature  to 
herself ;  and  we  may  sleep  for  one  while  at  least  secure  from  the 
attacks  of  this  hitherto  restless  Old  Bachelor.  It  remains  to  be 
seen,  whether  the  world  will  be  much  benefited  by  the  change  in 
his  condition. 

PART  THE  FIRST. 

L 

THE  Devil  was  sick  and  queasy  of  late, 

And  his  sleep  and  his  appetite  fail'd  him ; 
His  ears  they  hung  down,  and  his  tail  it  was  clapp'd 
Between  his  poor  hoofs,  like  a  dog  that's  been  rapp'd — 
None  knew  what  the  devil  ail'd  him. 


382  POLITICAL  SQUIBS,  EPIGRAMS,   ETC. 

II. 

Jle  tumbled  and  toss'd  on  his  mattress  o'  nights, 

That  was  fit  for  a  fiend's  disportal ; 
For  'twas  made  of  the  finest  of  thistles  and  thorn, 
Which  Alecto  herself  had  gather'd  in  scorn 
Of  the  best  down  beds  that  are  mortal. 

in. 

His  giantly  chest  in  earthquakes  heaved, 

With  groanings  corresponding ; 
And  mincing  and  few  were  the  words  he  spoke, 
While  a  sigh,  like  some  delicate  whirlwind,  broke 

From  a  heart  that  seem'd  desponding. 

IV. 

Now  the  Devil  an  old  wife  had  for  his  dam. 

I  think  none  e'er  was  older  : 
Her  years — old  Parr's  were  nothing  to  them ; 
And  a  chicken  to  her  was  Methusalem, 

You'd  say,  could  you  behold  her. 

v. 

She  remember'd  Chaos  a  little  child, 

Strumming  upon  hand  organs ; 
At  the  birth  of  Old  Night  a  gossip  she  sat, 
The  ancientest  there,  and  was  godmother  at 

The  christening  of  the  Gorgons. 

VL 

Her  bones  peep'd  through  a  rhinoceros'  skin, 

Like  a  mummy's  through  its  cerement ; 
But  she  had  a  mother's  heart,  and  guess'd 
What  pinch'd  her  son  ;  whom  she  thus  address'd 
In  terms  that  bespoke  endearment. 

VII. 

"  What  ails  my  Nicky,  my  darling  Imp, 
My  Lucifer  bright,  my  Beelze  1 


383 


My  Pig,  my  Pug.-with-a-curly-tail, 
You  are  not  well.     Can  a  mother  fail 
To  see  that  which  all  Hell  see  1" 

VIII. 

"  0  mother  dear,  I  am  dying,  I  fear ; 

Prepare  the  yew,  and  the  willow, 
And  the  cypress  black  :  for  I  get  no  ease 
By  day  or  by  night  for  the  cursed  fleas 

That  skip  about  my  pillow." 

IX. 

"  Your  pillow  is  clean,  and  your  pillow-beer, 
For  I  wash'd  'em  in  Styx  last  night,  son, 
And  your  blankets  both,  and  dried  them  upon 
The  brimstony  banks  of  Acheron — 
It  is  not  therms  that  bite,  son." 

x. 

"01  perish  of  cold  these  bitter  sharp  nights, 

The  damp  like  an  ague  ferrets ; 
The  ice  and  the  frost  hath  shot  into  the  bone ; 
And  I  care  not  greatly  to  sleep  alone 

0'  nights — for  the  fear  of  spirits." 

XL 

"  The  weather  is  warm,  my  own  sweet  boy, 

And  the  nights  are  close  and  stifling ; 
And  for  fearing  of  spirits,  you  cowardly  elf — 
Have  you  quite  forgot  you're  a  spirit  yourself] 
Come,  come,  I  see  you  are  trifling. 

XIL 

"  I  wish  my  Nicky  is  not  in  love — " 
"  0  mother,  you  have  nick'd  it — " 
And  he  turn'd  his  head  aside  with  a  blush — 
Not  red  hot  pokers  or  crimson  plush, 
Could  half  so  deep  have  prick'd  it. 


384  POLITICAL  SQUIBS,  EPIGRAMS,  ETC. 

xm. 

"  These  twenty  thousand  good  years  or  more," 

Quoth  he,  "  on  this  burning  shingle 
I  have  led  a  lonesome  bachelor's  life, 
Nor  known  the  comfort  of  babe  or  wife — 
'Tis  a  long  time  to  live  single." 

XIV. 

Quoth  she,  "  If  a  wife  is  all  you  want, 

I  shall  quickly  dance  at  your  wedding. 
I  am  dry  nurse,  you  know,  to  the  female  ghosts — " 
And  she  call'd  up  her  charge,  and  they  came  in  hosts 
To  do  the  old  beldam's  bidding : 

xv. 

All  who  in  their  lives  had  been  servants  of  sin — 

Adulteress,  wench,  virago — 
And  murd'resses  old  that  had  pointed  the  knife 
Against  a  husband's  or  father's  life, 

Each  one  a  she  lago. 

XVL 

First  Jezebel  came — no  need  of  paint 

Or  dressing  to  make  her  charming ; 
For  the  blood  of  the  old  prophetical  race 
Had  heighten'd  the  natural  flush  of  her  face 

To  a  pitch  Tbove  rouge  or  carmine. 

XVII. 

Semiramis  there  low  tender'd  herself, 

With  all  Babel  for  a  dowry : 
With  Helen,  the  flower  and  the  bane  of  Greece — 
And  bloody  Medea  nest  ofier'd  her  fleece, 

That  was  of  Hell  the  houri. 

XVIII. 

Clytemnestra,  with  Joan  of  Naples,  put  in  ; 
Cleopatra,  by  Antony  quicken 'd ; 


POLITICAL  SQUIBS,  EPIGRAMS,   ETC.  385 

Jocasta,  that  married  where  she  should  not, 
Came  hand  in  hand  with  the  daughters  of  Lot, 
'Till  the  Devil  was  fairly  sicken'd. 


XIX. 

For  the  Devil  himself,  a  devil  as  he  is, 

Disapproves  unequal  matches. 
"  0  mother,"  he  cried,  "  despatch  them  hence ; 
No  spirit — I  speak  it  without  offence — 

Shall  have  me  in  her  hatches." 

xx. 

With  a  wave  of  her  wand  they  all  were  gone  ! 

And  now  came  out  the  slaughter : 
"  "Tis  noue  of  these  that  can  serve  my  turn ; 
For  a  wife  of  flesh  and  blood  I  burn — 

I'm  in  love  with  a  tailor's  daughter. 

XXI. 

"  'Tis  she  must  heal  the  wounds  that  she  made, 

'Tis  she  must  be  my  physician. 
0  parent  mild,  stand  not  my  foe —  " 
For  his  mother  had  whisper'd  something  low 

About  "  matching  beneath  his  condition." 

XXII. 

"  And  then  we  must  get  paternal  consent, 

Or  an  unblest  match  may  vex  ye." 
"  Her  father  is  dead ;  I  fetch'd  him  away, 
In  the  midst  of  his  goose  last  Michaelmas  day — • 
He  died  of  an  apoplexy. 

XXIII. 

"  His  daughter  is  fair,  and  an  only  heir — 

With  her  I  long  to  tether — 
He  has  left  her  his  hell,  and  all  that  he  had  ; 
The  estates  are  contiguous,  and  I  shall  l>e  mad 

'Till  we  lay  our  two  hells  together." 
2c 


386  POLITICAL  SQUIBS,  EPIGRAMS,  ETC. 

XXIV. 

*'  But  how  do  you  know  the  fair  maid's  mindt" 

Quoth  he,  "  Her  loss  was  but  recent ; 
And  I  could  not  speak  my  mind,  you  know, 
Just  when  I  was  fetching  her  father  below — 
It  would  have  been  hardly  decent. 

XXV. 

"  But  a  leer  from  her  eye,  where  Cupids  lie, 

Of  love  gave  proof  apparent ; 

And,  from  something  she  dropp'd,  I  shrewdly  ween'd 
In  her  heart  she  judged  that  a  living  Fiend 

Was  better  than  a  dead  Parent. 

XXVI. 

"  But  the  time  is  short ;  and  suitors  may  come 

While  I  stand  here  reporting ; 
Then  make  your  son  a  bit  of  a  beau, 
And  give  me  your  blessing  before  I  go 

To  the  other  world  a-courting." 

xxvn. 

"  But  what  will  you  do  with  your  horns,  my  son  t 
And  that  tail — fair  maids  will  mock  it — 

"  My  tail  I  will  dock — and  as  for  the  horn, 

Like  husbands  above,  I  think  no  scorn 
To  carry  it  in  my  pocket." 

xxvin. 

"  But  what  will  you  do  with  your  feet,  my  son  1" 

"  Here  are  stockings  fairly  woven  : 
My  hoofs  I  will  hide  in  silken  hose  ; 
And  cinnamon-sweet  are  my  pettitoes — 

Because,  you  know,  they  are  cloven? 

XXIX. 

"  Then  take  a  blessing,  my  darling  son," 
Quoth  she,  and  kissed  him  civil — 


POLITICAL  SQUIBS,   EPIGRAMS,   ETC.  38? 

Then  his  neckcloth  she  tied ;  and  when  he  was  drest 
From  top  to  toe  in  his  Sunday's  best, 
He  appear'd  a  comely  deviL 

XXX. 

So  his  leave  he  took  :  but  how  he  fared 

In  his  courtship — barring  failures — 
In  a  Second  Part  you  shall  read  it  soon, 
In  a  brand-new  song,  to  be  sung  to  the  tune 

Of  the  "  Devil  among  the  Tailors." 


THE  SECOND  PART, 

CONTAINING  THE  COURTSHIP  AND  THE  WEDDING. 


WHO  is  she  that  by  night  from  her  balcony  looks 
On  a  garden  where  cabbage  is  springing  ? 

'Tis  the  tailor's  fair  lass,  that  we  told  of  above ; 

She  muses  by  moonlight  on  her  true  love ; 
So  sharp  is  Cupid's  stinging. 

n. 

She  has  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Prince  of  the  Air 

In  his  Luciferiau  splendour, 
And  away  with  coyness  and  maiden  reserve  ! 
For  none  but  the  Devil  her  turn  will  serve, 

Her  sorrows  else  will  end  her. 

in. 

She  saw  when  he  fetch'd  her  father  away, 

And  the  sight  no  whit  did  shake  her ; 
For  the  Devil  may  sure  with  his  own  make  free — 
And  "  it  saves  besides,"  quoth  merrily  she, 
"  The  expense  of  an  undertaker. 


388  POLITICAL  SQUIBS,   EPIGRAMS,   ETC. 

IV. 

"  Then  come,  my  Satan,  my  darling  Sin, 

Return  to  ray  arms,  my  Hell  beau ; 
My  Prince  of  Darkness,  my  crow-black  dove — 
And  she  scarce  had  spoke,  when  her  own  true  love 

Was  kneeling  at  her  elbow ! 

v. 

But  she  wist  not  at  first  that  this  was  he, 
That  had  raised  such  a  boiling  passion ; 

For  his  old  costume  he  had  laid  aside, 

And  was  come  to  court  a  mortal  bride 
In  a  coat-and-waistcoat  fashion. 

VI. 

She  miss'd  his  large  horns,  and  she  miss'd  his  fair  tail, 

That  had  hung  so  retrospective ; 
And  his  raven  plumes,  and  some  other  marks 
Regarding  his  feet,  that  had  left  their  sparks 

In  a  mind  but  too  susceptive  : 

VII. 

And  she  held  it  scorn  that  a  mortal  born 

Should  the  Prince  of  Spirits  rival, 
To  clamber  at  midnight  her  garden  fence — 
For  she  knew  not  else  by  what  pretence 

To  account  for  his  arrival. 

VIII. 

"  What  thief  art  thou,"  quoth  she,  "  in  the  dark 

That  stumblest  here  presumptuous  ? 
Some  Irish  adventurer  I  take  you  to  be — 
A  foreigner,  from  your  garb  I  see, 

Which  besides  is  not  over  sumptuous." 

IX. 

Then  Satan,  awhile  dissembling  his  rank, 
A  piece  of  amorous  fun  tries  : 


OLITICAL  SQUIBS,   EPIGRAMS,  ETC.  389 

Quoth  he,  "  I'm  a  Netherlander  born ; 
Fair  virgin,  receive  not  my  suit  with  scorn; 
I'm  a  Prince  in  the  Low  Countries — 

x. 

"  Though  I  travel  incog.     From  the  Land  of  Fog 

And  Mist  I  am  come  to  proffer 
My  crown  and  my  sceptre  to  lay  at  your  feet ; 
It  is  not  every  day  in  the  week  you  may  meet, 

Fair  maid,  with  a  Prince's  offer." 

XL 

"  Your  crown  and  your  sceptre  I  like  full  well, 
They  tempt  a  poor  maiden's  pride,  sir; 

But  your  lands  and  possessions — excuse  if  I'm  rude — 

Are  too  far  in  a  northerly  latitude 
For  me  to  become  your  bride,  sir. 

xn. 

"  In  that  aguish  clime  I  should  catch  my  death. 

Being  but  a  raw  new-comer — " 
Quoth  he,  "  We  have  plenty  of  fuel  stout ; 
And  the  fires,  which  I  kindle,  never  go  out 

By  winter,  nor  yet  by  summer. 

XIII. 

"  I  am  Prince  of  Hell,  and  Lord  Paramount 

Over  monarchs  there  abiding. 
My  groom  of  the  stables  is  N imrod  old  ; 
And  Xebuchadnazor  my  stirrups  must  hold, 

When  I  go  out  a-riding. 

XIV. 

"  To  spare  your  blushes^  and  maiden  fears, 

I  resorted  to  these  inventions — 
But,  imposture,  begone;  and  avaunt,  disguise  !" 
And  the  Devil  began  to  swell  and  rise 

To  his  own  diabolic  dimensions. 


390  POLITICAL  SQUIBS,   EPIGRAMS,   ETC. 

XV. 

Twin  horns  from  his  forehead  shot  up  to  the  moon, 

Like  a  branching  stag  in  Arden ; 
Dusk  wings  through  his  shoulders  with  eagle's  strengt 
Push'd  out ;  and  his  train  lay  floundering  in  length 

An  acre  beyond  the  garden. — 

XVI. 

To  tender  hearts  I  have  framed  my  lay — 

Judge  ye,  all  love-sick  maidens, 
When  the  virgin  saw  in  the  soft  moonlight, 
In  his  proper  proportions,  her  own  true  knight, 

If  she  needed  long  persuadings. 

XVII. 

Yet  a  maidenly  modesty  kept  her  back, 

As  her  sex's  art  had  taught  her  : 
For  "  the  biggest  fortunes,"  quoth  she,  "  in  the  land 
Are  not  worthy,"  then  blush'd,  "of  your  Highness's  hand, 

Much  less  a  poor  tailor's  daughter. 

XVIII. 

"  There's  the  two  Miss  Crockfords  are  single  still, 

For  whom  great  suitors  hunger ; 
And  their  father's  hell  is  much  larger  than  mine." 
Quoth  the  Devil,  "  I've  no  such  ambitious  design, 

For  their  dad  is  an  old  fishmonger ; 

XIX. 

"  And  I  cannot  endure  the  smell  of  fish — 

I  have  taken  an  anti-bias 
To  their  livers,  especially  since  the  day 
That  the  Angel  smoked  my  cousin  away 

From  the  chaste  spouse  of.  Tobias. 


"  Had  my  amorous  kinsman  much  longer  stay'd, 
The  perfume  would  have  seal'd  his  obit ; 


POLITICAL  SQUIBS,   EPIGRAMS,  ETC.  391 

For  he  had  a  nicer  nose  than  the  wench, 
Who  cared  not  a  pin  for  the  smother  and  stench, 
In  the  arms  of  the  son  of  Tobit." 

XXI. 

"  I  have  read  it,"  quoth  she,  "  in  Apocryphal  Writ — 

And  the  Devil  stoop'd  down  and  kiss'd  her ; 
Xot  Jove  himself,  when  he  courted  in  flame, 
On  Semele's  lips,  the  love-scorch'd  dame, 
Impress'd  such  a  burning  blister. 

XXII. 

The  fire  through  her  bones  and  her  vitals  shot — 

"  0,  I  yield,  my  winsome  marrow — 
I  am  thine  for  life  " — and  black  thunders  roll'd — 
And  she  sank  in  his  arms  through  the  garden  mould, 

With  the  speed  of  a  red-hot  arrow. 


XXIII. 

Merrily,  merrily,  ring  the  bells 

From  each  Pandeinonian  steeple ; 
For  the  Devil  hath  gotten  his  beautiful  bride, 
And  a  wedding  dinner  he  will  provide, 

To  feast  all  kinds  of  people. 

XXIV. 

Fat  bulls  of  Basan  are  roasted  whole, 

Of  the  breed  that  ran  at  David  ; 
With  the  flesh  of  goats,  on  the  sinister  side, 
That  shall  stand  apart,  when  the  world  is  tried ; 

Fit  meat  for  souls  unsaved ! 

XXV. 

The  fowl  from  the  spit  were  the  Harpies'  brood, 

Which  the  bard  sang  near  Cremona, 
With  a  garnish  of  bats  in  their  leathern  wings  imp'd 
And  the  fish  was — two  delicate  slices  crimp'd, 

Of  the  whale  that  swallow'd  Jonah. 


392  POLITICAL  SQUIBS,  EPIGRAMS,  ETC. 

XXVI. 

Theii  the  goblets  were  crown'd,  and  a  health  went  round 

To  the  bride,  in  a  wine  like  scarlet ; 
No  earthly  vintage  so  deeply  paints, 
For  'twas  dash'd  with  a  tinge  from  the  blood  of  the  saints 

By  the  Babylonian  Harlot. 

XXVII. 

No  Hebe  fair  stood  cup-bearer  there, 

The  guests  were  their  own  skinkers ; 
But  Bishop  Judas  first  blest  the  can, 
Who  is  of  all  Hell  Metropolitan, 

And  kiss'd  it  to  all  the  drinkers. 

XXVIII. 

The  feast  being  ended,  to  dancing  they  went, 

To  music  that  did  produce  a 
Most  dissonant  sound,  while  a  hellish  glee 
Was  sung  in  parts  by  the  Furies  Three  ; 

And  the  Devil  took  out  Medusa. 

XXIX. 

But  the  best  of  the  sport  was  to  hear  his  old  dam, 

Set  up  her  shrill  forlorn  pipe — 
How  the  wither'd  Beldam  hobbled  about, 
And  put  the  rest  of  the  company  out — 

For  she  needs  must  try  a  hornpipe. 

XXX. 

But  the  heat,  and  the  press,  and  the  noise,  and  the  din, 

Were  so  great,  that,  howe'er  unwilling, 
Our  reporter  no  longer  was  able  to  stay, 
But  came  in  his  own  defence  away, 

And  left  the  bride  quad  rilling. 


NOTES. 


Mrs.  Leicester's  School  (p.  1).  —  London,  printed  for  M.  J. 
Godwin,  at  the  Juvenile  Library,  No.  41  Skinner  Street,  1807. 
The  joint  composition  of  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb,  the  three 
stories,  Maria,  Howe,  Susan  Yates,  and  Arabella  Hardy,  being 
by  Charles,  and  the  remainder  by  Mary.  No  mention  is  to  be 
found  in  Lamb's  letters  of  the  origin  of  this  work  ;  but  it  was 
certainly  written  at  the  suggestion  of  Godwin,  for  his  series  of 
Children's  books.  It  is  interesting  to  trace  in  the  scenes  and 
incidents  of  the  various  stories  recollections  of  the  childish 
days  of  the  brother  and  sister.  The  pretty  village  of  Amwell, 
where  the  school  is  placed,  was  only  some  five  miles  from 
Blakesware.  The  story  called  The  Young  Mahometan  contains 
Mary  Lamb's  own  recollections  of  the  old  Family  Seat  of  the 
Plumers,  and  her  reference  to  the  marble  hall,  the  twelve 
Csesars,  the  Hogarth  prints,  and  the  picture  of  the  young 
shepherdess,  may  be  put  side  by  side  with  her  brother's  essay, 

"  Blakesmoor  in  H shire,"  and  other  allusions  in  letter  and 

essay  to  the  old  mansion.  The  Witch  Aunt  (absurdly  altered 
in  modern  editions  to  the  much  less  expressive  "  Effect  of 
Witch  Stories  "),  is  the  first  sketch  of  an  experience  afterwards 
elaborated  by  Lamb  in  the  Elia  Essay,  Witches  and  other  Night 
Fears.  Susan  Yates,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  a  village  in 
the  Lincolnshire  Fens,  was  probably  derived  from  the  early 
recollections  of  old  John  Lamb,  who  had  originally  come  up  to 
London  from  Lincolnshire  a  poor  boy  to  enter  service,  and 
who  when  he  came  in  after  years  to  live  in  the  Temple  would 
naturally  love  to  compare  the  grotesque  faces  "in  the  round 
tower  of  the  Temple  Church  "  with  those  in  the  old  Minster 
Church  of  his  native  county.  The  Changeling  is  curious  as 
illustrating  the  strong  Shakspearian  bias  of  the  writers,  as 
shown  in  their  resorting  to  the  expedient  of  a  play  within  a 
play,  whereby  to  "catch  the  conscience"  of  the  delinquent 
nurse.  Perhaps  the  most  perfect  of  the  stories,  in  point  'of 
delicacy  and  humour,  are  The  Sea  Voyage  of  Charles  and  The 


394  NOTES. 

Father's  Wedding-Day  of  Mary.  It  was  the  latter  which  was 
Walter  Savage  Lander's  special  favourite.  We  have  Lamb's 
own  authority  for  the  respective  authorship  of  the  various  tales. 
"I  wrote  only  the  Witch  Aunt;  the  First  going  to  Church; 
and  the  final  story  about  'a  little  Indian  girl '  iu  a  ship." 

The  Adventures  of  Ulysses  (p.  89). — 1808.  Another  contri- 
bution to  Godwin's  Juvenile  Library.  Lamb  writes  to  Manning 
in  February  1808  : — "I  have  done  two  books  since  the  failure 
of  my  farce  ;  they  will  both  be  out  this  summer.  The  one  is  a 
juvenile  book — 'The  adventures  of  Ulysses,'  intended  to  be  an 
introduction  to  the  reading  of  Telemachus  !  It  is  done  out  of 
the  Odyssey,  not  from  the  Greek — I  would  not  mislead  you — 
nor  yet  from  Pope's  Odyssey,  but  from  an  older  translation  of 
one  Chapman.  The  '  Shakspeare  Tales '  suggested  the  doing  it." 
Again,  in  1827,  writing  to  Barton,  he  asks: — "Did  you  ever 
read  my  'Adventures  of  Ulysses,'  founded  on  Chapman's  old 
translation  of  it,  for  children  or  men  ?  Chapman  is  divine,  and 
my  abridgment  has  not  quite  emptied  him  of  his  divinity." 
Traces  of  Chapman  may  be  discovered  in  abundance  in  Lamb's 
version,  extending  to  a  repetition  of  misprints  in  Chapman 
which  even  down  to  the  present  day  have  not  been  corrected. 
The  Homeric  river-epithet  "Fair- flowing"  was  personified  by 
Chapman  into  a  river  goddess,  which  we  may  suppose  he 
intended  to  write  "  Callirhoe,"  but  which  by  a  printer's  error 
became  "Callicoe,"  in  which  shape  it  strangely  appears  in 
Lamb's  copy.  But  Lamb's  Greek  was  not  his  strong  point. 
For  the  rest,  he  frequently  borrows  whole  lines  of  Chapman's 
version,  as  in  the  story  of  J2olus — 

"  Only  he  left  abroad  the  western  wind ;" 
in  that  of  Polyphemus — 

"  Which  that  abhorred  No-man  did  put  out, 
Assisted  by  his  execrable  rout," 

and  so  forth,  giving  to  his  narrative  a  rhythm  and  diction 
pleasantly  old-fashioned.  There  seems  no  reason  why  the 
version  should  not  again  become  a  favourite  schoolroom  story- 
book, and  form  as  pleasant  an  introduction  to  the  Odyssey 
as  the  Tales  from  Shakspeare  have  been,  and  still  are,  to  the 
study  of  our  English  poet. 

Guy  Faux  (p.  180). — (London  Magazine,  November  1823.)  The 
latter  portion  of  this  paper  first  appeared  in  Leigh  Hunt's 
Reflector  in  1811,  under  the  following  title,  "On  the  probable 
effects  cf  the  Gunpowder  Treason  in  this  country,  if  the 
Conspirators  had  accomplished  their  object."  It  began  with 
the  paragraph  on  p.  18-3,  "The  Gunpowder  Treason  was  the 


NOTES.  395 

subject,"  etc.  etc.  Lamb  revived  it  with  additions  twelve  years 
later  in  the  London  Magazine,  a  propos  of  an  article  of  Hazlitt's 
(the  "  ingenious  and  subtle  writer  "  alluded  to)  in  the  Examiner 
of  November  1821. 

On  the  Custom  of  Hissing  at  the  Theatres  (p.  192).— (The  Reflec- 
tor, No.  iiL,  Art.  xi.,  1811).  A  reminiscence  of  the  failure  of  Mr. 
H.  at  Drury  Lane  in  1806.  The  Vindictive  Man  was  a  play  of 
Holcroft's  produced  in  November  1806,  only  three  weeks  before 
Lamb's  equally  unsuccessful  venture.  The  condemnation  of 
Holcroft's  play  is  fully  and  amusingly  described  by  Lamb  in  a 
letter  to  Manning  of  December  5,  1806.  Mr.  De  Carnp,  who 
played  Goldfinch,  a  character  revived  from  Holcroft's  Road  to 
Ruin,  "was  hooted,  more  than  hissed  ;  hooted  and  bellowed  off 
the  stage  before  the  second  act  was  finished,  so  that  the  remainder 
of  his  part  was  forced  to  be,  with  some  violence  to  the  play, 
omitted."  The  play,  according  to  Lamb,  "died  in  part  of  its 
own  weakness,  and  in  part  for  being  choked  up  with  bad  actors." 
It  was  acted  only  twice. 

The  Good  Clerk  (p.  200).— (The  Reflector,  No.  iv.,  Art.  xxiii., 
1811.) 

The  Reynolds  Gallery  (p.  207). — (The  Examiner,  June  6, 
1813.)  An  exhibition  of  the  works  of  Reynolds,  first  siiggested 
by  a  "lover  of  the  arts  "  at  the  Royal  Academy  dinner  in  1811. 
"  It  was  warmly  applauded  by  the  Prince  Regent,  who  was  pre- 
sent, and  who  offered  to  contribute  several  works  by  the  late 
president  in  his  own  possession.  This  commemoration  of 
Reynolds  took  place  in  1813,  when  113  of  his  works  were 
gathered  together  for  exhibition  to  the  public,  and  included 
some  of  his  finest  productions.  It  was  inaugurated  by  a  banquet 
at  Willis's  Rooms  at  which  the  Prince  Regent  was  present,  and 
at  which  all  who  were  distinguished  in  position  and  associated 
with  the  encouragement  of  the  arts  were  specially  invited  to 
attend.  This  was  the  first  public  exhibition  of  the  works  of 
any  individual  British  artist "  (Sandby's  History  of  the  Royal 
Academy.  London,  1862). 

Wordsworth's  Excursion  (p.  210). — (Quarterly  Review,  October 
1814.)  Jeffrey's  famous  notice  of  the  Excursion,  beginning 
"This  will  never  do,"  appeared  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  of 
November  1814,  and  by  a  happy  coincidence  Lamb's  appeared 
in  the  corresponding  number  of  the  Quarterly.  Just  before  its 
publication  Lamb  wrote  to  Wordsworth  asking  for  indulgence 
on  tlie  ground  that  it  was  the  first  review  he  had  ever  written. 
"I  hope,"  he  says,  "you  will  see  good-will  in  the  thing.  I 
had  a  difficulty  to  perform  not  to  make  it  all  panegyric  ;  I  have 


396  NOTES. 

attempted  to  personate  a  mere  stranger  to  you,  perhaps  with 
too  much  strangeness.  But  you  must  bear  that  in  mind  when 
you  read  it,  and  not  think  that  I  am  in  mind  distant  from  you  or 
your  poem,  but  that  both  are  close  to  me,  among  the  nearest  of 
persons  and  things.  .  .  .  But,"  he  concludes,  "it  must  speak 
tor  itself,  if  Gilford  and  his  crew  do  not  put  words  in  its  mouth, 
which  I  suspect."  This  ominous  hint  was  only  too  literally  to 
be  fulfilled.  Immediately  after  the  appearance  of  the  Quarterly 
Lamb  wrote  again  to  his  friend,  this  time  in  dismay : — "  I  told 
you  my  review  was  a  very  imperfect  one.  But  what  you  will  see 
in  the  Quarterly  is  a  spurious  one,  which  Mr.  Baviad  Gifford  has 
palmed  upon  it  for  mine.  I  never  felt  more  vexed  in  my  life 
than  when  I  read  it.  I  cannot  give  you  an  idea  of  what  he  has 
done  to  it,  out  of  spite  at  me,  because  he  once  suffered  me  to  be 
called  a  lunatic  in  his  Review.  The  language  he  has  altered 
throughout.  Whatever  inadequate  ness  it  had  to  its  subject  it 
was,  in  point  of  composition,  the  prettiest  piece  of  prose  I  ever 
writ;  and  so  my  sister  (to  whom  alone  I  read  the  MS.)  said. 
That  charm,  if  it  had  any,  is  all  gone  ;  more  than  a  third  of  the 
substance  is  cut  away,  and  that  not  all  from  one  place,  but 
passim,  so  as  to  make  utter  nonsense.  Every  warm  expression 
is  changed  for  a  nasty  cold  one.  I  have  not  the  cursed  altera- 
tion by  me  ;  I  shall  never  look  at  it  again  ;  but,  for  a  specimen, 
I  remember  I  had  said  the  poet  of  the  Excursion  '  walks  through 
common  forests  as  through  some  Dodona  or  enchanted  wood, 
and  every  casual  bird  that  flits  upon  the  boughs,  like  that 
miraculous  one  in  Tasso,  but  in  language  more  piercing  than 
any  articulate  sounds,  reveals  to  him  far  higher  love-lays.'  It 
is  now  (besides  half  a  dozen  alterations  in  the  same  half  dozen 
lines)  'but  in  language  more  intelligent  reveals  to  him  ;'  that 
is  one  I  remember."  There  is  much  more  in  the  same  letter  on 
the  subject  that  will  be  read  with  interest.  In  spite  of  Gifford's 
alterations  there  are  passages  in  the  Review,  as  it  appeared,  that 
are  unmistakably  Lamb's,  and  could  have  been  written  by  no 
other  hand.  The  beautiful  sentence  about  those  who  "never 
having  possessed  the  tenderness  and  docility  "  of  the  childish 
age,  "know  not  what  the  soul  of  a  child  is,  how  apprehensive, 
how  imaginative,  how  religious,"  is  unquestionably  a  "sweet 
forewarning  "  of  one  of  the  most  affecting  passages  in  the  Elia 
Essay  "New  Year's  Eve." 

As  I  have  elsewhere  remarked,  much  of  Lamb's  praise  may 
seem  commonplace  compared  with  the  able  and  sympathetic 
Wordsworthian  criticism  that  has  been  produced  in  the  last 
seventy  years.  But,  as  usual,  he  was  among  the  first  to  recog- 
nise a  really  good  thing,  while  the  world's  eyes  were  still  closed. 
It  is  the  timeliness  of  his  appreciation  that  should  win  our 
gratitude. 


NOTES.  397 

Theatrical  Notices  (p.  225). — The  three  following  theatrical 
criticisms  appeared  in  the  columns  of  the  Examiner  with  the 
signature,  four  asterisks  (*  *  *  *),  adopted  by  Lamb  in  his  com- 
munications to  that  journal.  To  the  third  of  these  anonymous 
articles  (New  pieces  at  the  Lyceum),  Leigh  Hunt  prefixed  an 
editorial  note,  pointing  to  a  special  and  distinguished  author- 
ship. He  speaks  of  "an  impudent  rogue  of  a  friend  whose 
most  daring  tricks  and  pretences  carry  as  good  a  countenance 
with  them  as  virtues  in  any  other  man,  and  who  has  the  face 
above  all  to  be  a  better  critic  than  ourselves." 

The  letter  about  Miss  Kelly  was  originally  addressed  to 
Lamb's  old  schoolfellow  and  friend  John  Matthew  Gutch,  for 
a  long  time  editor  of  Farley's  Bristol  Journal.  Leigh  Hunt 
prefaced  the  letter,  in  copying  it  into  the  Examiner,  as  follows  : 
—"The  reader  we  are  sure  will  thank  us  for  extracting  the 
following  observations  on  a  favourite  actress  from  a  provincial 
paper,  the  Bristol  Journal.  We  should  have  guessed  the 
masterly  and  cordial  hand  that  wrote  them  had  we  met  with 
it  in  the  East  Indies.  There  is  but  one  praise  belonging  to 
Miss  Kelly  which  it  has  omitted  and  which  it  could  not  supply  ; 
and  that  is,  that  she  has  had  finer  criticism  written  upon  her 
than  any  performer  that  ever  trod  the  stage." 

First  Fruits  of  A  ustralian  Poetry  (p.  235.) — (Examiner,  January 
16,  1820. )  A  collection  of  verse,  printed  for  private  circulation, 
by  Lamb's  old  friend,  Barron  Field,  who  was  Judge  of  the 
Supreme  Court  at  Sydney,  New  South  Wales,  from  1816  to 
1824.  The  poems  afterwards  appeared  as  an  appendix  to  a 
volume  of  geographical  memoirs,  published  by  Murray,  in  1825. 
Compare  Lamb's  Elia  Essay,  Distant  Correspondents. 

The  Gentle  Giantess  (p.  238). — (London  Magazine,  December 
1822.)  Although  Lamb  domiciles  the  widow  Blacket  at  Oxford, 
her  original  would  seem  to  have  belonged  to  the  sister  University. 
It  can  hardly  be  coincidence  that  Lamb  thus  writes  in  the 
same  year  to  Miss  Wordsworth  of  a  certain  stout  lady  at 
Cambridge: — "Ask  anybody  you  meet  who  is  the  biggest 
woman  in  Cambridge,  and  I'll  hold  yon  a  wager  they'll  say 
Mrs.  Smith.  She  broke  down  two  benches  in  Trinity  Gardens, 
one  on  the  confines  of  St.  John's,  which  occasioned  a  litigation 
between  the  Societies  as  to  repairing  it.  In  warm  weather  she 
retires  into  an  ice-cellar  (literally  !)  and  dates  the  returns  of  the 
years  from  a  hot  Thursday  some  twenty  years  back.  She  sita 
in  a  room  with  opposite  doors  and  windows,  to  let  in  a  thorough 
draught,  which  gives  her  slenderer  friends  toothaches." 

On  a  Passage  in  the  Tempest  (p.  242). — (London  Magazine, 
November  1823. )  Lamb's  citation  from  Ogilby  is  nojeu  d 'esprit, 


398  NOTES. 

but  a  genuine  transcript.  There  can  be  little  doubt  that  an 
early  version  of  this  story  was  known  to  Shakspeare.  The 
siege  of  Algiers  took  place  in  1542,  and  all  the  authorities  cited 
by  Ogilby  wrote  before  Shakspeare's  day.  In  company  with 
Mr.  Aldis  Wright,  I  have  referred  to  many  of  these  in  the 
Library  of  Trinity  College  Cambridge,  but  as  yet  have  not 
found  any  mention  of  the  witch  incident. 

Letter  to  an  old  Gentleman  whose  Education  has  been  neglected 
(p.  250). — (London  Magazine,  January  1825.)  The  papers  here 
playfully  imitated  are  of  course  De  Quincey's  "Letters  to  a 
Young  Man  whose  Education  has  been  neglected,"  which  appeared 
first  in  the  London  Magazine.  Lamb  has  not  attempted  to 
parody  more  than  the  introductory  passages  of  De  Quincey's 
first  letter,  and  here  and  there  the  solemn  sententiousness  of 
the  original.  The  "first  question"  addressed  to  De  Quincey, 
' '  Whether  to  you,  with  your  purposes,  and  at  your  age  of 
thirty-two,  a  residence  at  either  of  our  English  universities  or 
at  any  foreign  university  can  be  of  much  service  ?"  is  veiy 
humorously  paralleled  by  the  supposed  qiiestion  of  Lamb's 
correspondent  ' '  Whether  a  person  at  the  age  of  sixty-three, 
with  no  more  proficiency  than  a  tolerable  knowledge  of  most 
of  the  characters  of  the  English  alphabet  at  first  sight  amounts 
to  ...  may  hope  to  arrive,  within  a  presumable  number  of 
years,  at  that  degree  of  attainments  which  shall  entitle  the 
possessor  to  the  character,  which  you  are  on  so  many  accounts 
justly  desirous  of  acquiring,  of  a  learned  man."  Lamb  writes 
to  Miss  Hutchinson  that  "  De  Quincey's  parody  w;is  submitted 
to  him  before  being  printed,  and  had  his  probatum." 

Biographical  Memoir  of  Mr.  Liston  (p.  253). — (London  Maga- 
zine, January  1825.)  See  letter  of  Lamb  to  Miss  Hutchinson  of 
January  25,  1825.  "  Did  you  read  the  Memoir  of  Liston?  and 
did  you  guess  whose  it  was  ?  Of  all  the  lies  I  ever  put  off, 
I  value  this  most.  It  is  from  top  to  toe,  every  paragraph,  pure 
invention,  and  has  passed  for  gospel ;  has  been  republished  in 
newspapers,  and  in  the,  penny  play-bills  of  the  night,  as  an 
authentic  account.  I  shall  certainly  go  to  the  naughty  man 
some  day  for  my  fibbings. "  So  again,  to  Bernard  Barton  : — 
"  I  have  caused  great  speculation  in  the  dramatic  (not  thy) 
world  by  a  lying  'Life  of  Liston,'  all  pure  invention.  The 
town  has  swallowed  it,  and  it  is  copied  into  newspapers,  play- 
bills, etc.,  as  authentic.  You  do  not  know  the  droll,  and 
possibly  missed  reading  the  article  (in  our  first  number,  new 
series).  A  life  more  improbable  for  him  to  have  lived  would 
not  easily  be  invented." 

Autobiography  of  Mr.  Mundcn  (p.  262). — (London  Magazine, 


NOTES.  399 

February  1825.)  "  He  wrote  in  the  same  Mngazine  two  lives  of 
Liston  and  Munden  which  the  public  took  for  serious,  and 
which  exhibit  an  extraordinary  jumble  of  imaginary  facts  and 
truth  of  bye-painting.  Munden  he  made  born  at  Stoke  Pogis, 
the  very  sound  of  which  was  like  the  actor  speaking  and 
digging  his  words "  (Leigh  Hunt's  Autobiography,  chap, 
xvi). 

Reflections  in  the  Pillory  (p.  266). — (London  Magazine, 
March  1825.) 

The  Last  Peach  (p.  271).— (London  Magazine,  April  1825.) 
A  reminiscence,  apparently  of  the  old  mansion  of  the  Plumers 
at  Blakesware,  and  of  Lamb's  summer  holiday  spent  there  with 

his  grandmother.     See  Elia  Essay,  Blakcsmoor  in  H shire, 

and  my  notes  upon  it.  The  "hot  feel  of  the  brickwork"  is 
another  exquisite  touch  to  be  added  to  the  "sulky  pike"  and 
the  "solitary  wasp"  in  that  delightful  picture. 

The  Illustrious  Defunct  (p.  274). — (New  Monthly  Magazine, 
1825.)  When  Lamb  wrote  this  admirable  essay,  the  State- 
lottery  system  was,  as  he  says,  "moribund,"  but  not  yet 
extinct.  It  came  to  an  end  in  the  following  year.  In  the 
number  of  Hone's  Every-Day  Book  for  November  15.  1826, 
will  be  found  some  most  amusing  particulars  of  the  event,  and 
the  expiring  efforts  of  the  ticket-sellers  to  advertise  their  wares. 
"  Positively  the  last  lottery  that  will  ever  be  drawn  in  England. 
All  lotteries  end  for  ever,  18  October."  Hone  gives  a  copy 
of  a  pictorial  advertisement,  representing  a  fishwornan,  sitting 
down  by  the  side  of  her  basket  and  reading  a  printed  bill — 
"What's  the  odds  ?"  she  says,  "while  I  am  floundering  here 
the  goldfish  will  begone  ;  and  as  I  always  was  a  dab  at  hooking 
the  right  numbers,  I  must  cast  for  a  share  of  the  six  £30,000 
on  the  18th  of  July  ;  for  it  is  but  'giving  a  sprat  to  catch  a 
herring,'  as  a  body  may  say,  and  it  is  the  last  chance  we  shall 
have  in  England."  In  after  days,  Hone  adds,  this  may  be 
looked  on  with  interest  as  a  specimen  of  the  means  to  which 
the  lottery-schemers  were  reduced  in  order  to  attract  attention 
to  "the  last." 

The  Religion  of  Actors  (p.  281). — (Xeio  Monthly  Magazine, 
1826.)  "A  little  thing  without  name  will  also  be  printed 
on  the  Religion  of  the  Actors,  but  it  is  out  of  your  way,  so  I 
recommend  you,  with  true  author's  hypocrisy,  to  skip  it "  (Lamb 
to  Bernard  Barton,  March,  1826). 

The  Months  (p.  285).— (Hone's  Every-Day  Book,  April  16, 
1826.)  Hone  prefixes  the  following  note: — "  C.  L.,  whose 


400  NOTES. 

papers  under  these  initials  on  'Captain  Starkey/  'The  Ass,' 
and  'Squirrels,'  besides  other  communications  are  in  the  first 
volume,  drops  the  following  pleasant  article  'in  an  hour  of 
need.'" 

"Those  Every -Day  and  Table  Books  will  be  a  treasure  a 
hundred  years  hence,  but  they  have  failed  to  make  Hone's 
fortune."  So  Lamb  wrote  to  Southey  in  1830,  pleading  for  the 
struggling  editor,  for  whom  kind  friends  had  then  just  opened 
a  coffee-house  in  the  city.  It  was  in  a  like  "  hour  of  need  " 
that  Lamb  had  originally  sent  contributions  to  the  pleasant 
columns  of  the  Every-Day  Book.  Hone  acknowledges  his 
gratitude  in  a  dedicatory  letter  prefixed  to  the  completed  work. 
"Your  letter  to  me,"  he  writes,  "within  the  first  two  months 
from  the  commencement  of  the  present  work,  approving  my 
notice  of  St.  Chad's  Well,  and  your  afterwards  daring  to  publish 
me  your  '  friend '  with  your  proper  name  annexed,  I  shall 
never  forget.  How  can  I  forget  your  and  Miss  Lamb's  sympathy 
and  kindness  when  glooms  overmastered  me,  and  that  your 
pen  sparkled  in  the  book  when  my  mind  was  in  clouds  and 
darkness.  These  '  trifles,'  as  each  of  you  would  call  them,  are 
benefits  scored  upon  my  heart." 

Reminiscence  of  Sir  Jeffrey  Dunstan  (p.  289). — (Hone's  Every- 
Day  Book,  June  22,  1826).  The  following  extract  from  Sir 
Richard  Phillips'  Morning's  Walk  to  Kew  (1817),  as  quoted  in 
Hone's  Evcry-Day  Book,  forms  the  best  explanation  of  Lamb's 
letter  to  the  editor:  —  "Southward  of  Wandsworth  a  road 
extends  nearly  two  miles  to  the  village  of  Lower  Tooting,  and 
nearly  midway  are  a  few  houses  or  hamlets  by  the  side  of  a 
small  common  called  Garrat,  from  which  the  road  itself  is 
called  Garrat  Lane.  Various  encroachments  on  this  common 
led  to  an  association  of  the  neighbours,  about  three  score  years 
since,  when  they  chose  a  president,  or  mayor,  to  protect  their 
rights  ;  and  the  time  of  their  first  election  being  tlie  period  of 
a  new  Parliament,  it  was  agreed  that  the  mayor  should  be 
rechosen  after  every  general  election.  Some  facetious  members 
of  the  club  gave  in  a  few  years  local  notoriety  to  this  election  ; 
and  when  party  spirit  ran  high  in  the  days  of  IVilkes  and 
Liberty,  it  was  easy  to  create  an  appetite  for  a  burlesque 
election  among  the  lower  orders  of  the  metropolis.  The  publicans 
at  Wandsworth,  Tooting,  Battersea,  Clapnam  and  Vauxhall, 
made  a  purse  to  give  it  character  ;  and  Mr.  Foote  rendered  its 
interest  universal  by  calling  one  of  his  inimitable  farces  "The 
Mayor  of  Garrat."  I  have  indeed  been  told  that  Foote,  Garrick, 
and  Wilkes  wrote  some  of  the  candidates'  addresses,  for  the 
purpose  of  instructing  the  people  in  the  corruptions  which 
attend  elections  to  the  legislature,  and  of  producing  those 


NOTES.  401 

reforms  by  means  of  ridicule  and  shame  which  are  vainly 
expected  from  solemn  appeals  of  argument  and  patriotism. 

Not  being  able  to  find  the  members  for  Garrat  in  Beatson's 
political  index,  or  in  any  of  the  court  calendars,  I  am  obliged 
to  depend  on  tradition  for  information  in  regard  to  the  early 
history  of  this  famous  borough.  The  first  mayor  of  whom  I 
could  hear  was  called  Sir  John  Harper.  He  filled  the  seat 
during  two  Parliaments,  and  was,  it  appears,  a  man  of  wit,  for 
on  a  dead  cat  being  thrown  at  him  on  the  hustings,  and  a 
bystander  exclaiming  that  it  stunk  worse  than  a  fox,  Sir  John 
vociferated,  "That's  no  wonder,  for  you  see  its  a  pole-cat." 

This  noted  baronet  was,  in  the  metropolis,  a  retailer  of  brick- 
dust  ;  and,  his  Garrat  honours  being  supposed  to  be  a  means 
of  improving  his  trade  and  the  condition  of  his  ass,  many 
characters  in  similar  occupations  were  led  to  aspire  to  the  same 
distinctions. 

He  was  succeeded  by  Sir  Jeffrey  Dunstan,  who  was  returned 
for  three  parliaments,  and  was  the  most  popular  candidate  that 
ever  appeared  on  the  Garrat  hustings.  His  occupation  was 
that  of  buying  old  wigs,  once  an  article  of  trade  like  that  in  old 
clothes,  but  become  obsolete  since  the  full-bottomed  and  full- 
dressed  wigs  of  both  sexes  went  out  of  fashion.  Sir  Jeffrey 
usually  carried  his  wig-bag  over  his  shoulder,  and,  to  avoid  the 
charge  of  vagrancy,  vociferated,  as  he  passed  along  the  street, 
"old  wigs  ;"  but  having  a  person  like  Esop,  and  a  countenance 
and  manner  marked  by  irresistible  humour,  he  never  appeared 
without  a  train  of  boys  and  curious  persons  whom  he  entertained 
by  his  sallies  of  wit,  shrewd  sayings,  and  smart  repartees  ;  and 
from  whom  without  begging  he  collected  sufficient  to  maintain 
his  dignity  as  mayor  and  knight.  He  was  no  respecter  of 
persons,  and  was  so  severe  in  his  jokes  on  the  comiptions  and 
compromisers  of  power,  that  the  street-jester  was  prosecuted 
for  using  what  were  then  called  seditious  expressions  ;  and,  as 
a  caricature  on  the  times  which  ought  never  to  be  forgotten, 
he  was  in  1793  tried,  convicted,  and  imprisoned  !  In  conse- 
quence of  this  affair,  and  some  charges  of  dishonesty,  he  lost 
his  popularity,  and  at  the  general  election  for  1796  was  ousted 
by  Sir  Harry  Dimsdale,  muffin-seller,  a  man  as  much  deformed 
as  himself.  Sir  Jeffrey  could  not  long  survive  his  fall  ;  but  in 
death  as  in  life  he  proved  a  satire  on  the  vices  of  the  proud, 
for  in  1797  he  died — like  Alexander  the  Great  and  many  other 
heroes  renowned  in  the  historic  page — "of  suffocation  from 
excessive  drinking  !" 

Captain  Starkey  (p.  292). — (Hone's  Every-Day  Book,  vol.  i., 
July  21. )    Under  the  date  of  9th  July  Hone  had  published  a 
review  of  the  following  work — "Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Benj. 
2  D 


402  NOTES. 

Starkey,  late  of  London,  but  now  an  inmate  of  the  Jreeinon  e, 
Hospital  in  Newcastle.  Written  by  himself.  With  a  portrait  of 
the  author,  and  a  fac-simile  of  his  handwriting.  Printed  and  sold 
by  William  Hall,  Great  Market,  Newcastle.  1818."  The  book, 
the  reviewer  good-naturedly  says,  is  the  adventureless  history 
of  a  man  who  did  no  harm  in  the  world,  and  thought  he  had  a 
right  to  live,  because  he  was  a  living  being.  In  the  course  of 
his  hand-to-mouth  struggle  for  existence,  Starkey  records  how, 
at  the  age  of  fourteen,  he  was  "  bound  apprentice  to  Mr.  William 
Bird,  an  eminent  writer  and  teacher  of  languages  and  mathe- 
matics, in  Fetter  Lane,  Holborn."  It  was  the  mention  of  this, 
his  earliest  place  of  education,  that  attracted  the  notice  of  Lamb, 
and  produced  the  singularly  interesting  contribution  to  his  own 
biography  contained  hi  this  letter. 

The  Ass  (p.  297). — (Hone's  Every-Day  Book,  vol.  i.,  October 
5.)  Hone  prefaces  Lamb's  contribution  with  the  following 
note: — "The  cantering  of  Tim  Tims"  (a  correspondent  who 
bad  written  on  the  same  subject  a  few  weeks  earlier)  ''startles 
him  who  told  of  bis  'youthful  days'  at  the  school  wherein  poor 
Starkey  cyphered  part  of  his  little  life.  C.  L.  '  getting  well, 
but  weak'  from  painful  and  severe  indisposition,  is  'off  and 
away '  for  a  short  discursion.  Better  health  to  him,  and  good 
be  to  him  all  his  life.  Here  he  is." 

In  Re  Squirrels  (p.  301). — (Hone's  Every-Day  Book,  vol.  i., 
October  18.)  A  correspondent  of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine, 
on  the  seventh  of  the  same  month,  had  communicated  his 
experience  of  these  little  creatures,  and  among  other  letters  to 
Hone  which  it  had  called  forth  was  this  of  Lamb's — a  trifle, 
but  rich  in  his  peculiar  humour. 

Estimate  of  Defoe's  Secondary  Novels  (p.  303). — Contributed 
by  Lamb  to  his  friend  Walter  Wilson's  "Memoirs  of  the  Life 
and  Times  of  Daniel  Defoe,  1829."  The  substance  of  a  portion 
of  it  will  be  found  in  a  letter  of  December  1822,  on  first 
hearing  of  Wilson's  intention  to  undertake  the  work.  See  also 
another  letter  to  Wilson,  of  November  15,  1829,  acknowledg- 
ing a  present  of  the  completed  work,  and  saying— "I  shall 
always  feel  happy  in  having  iny  name  go  down  anyhow  with 
Defoe's  and  that  of  his  historiographer.  I  promise  myself,  if 
not  immortality,  yet  diuturnity  of  being  read  in  consequence." 

Recolledions  of  a  late  Royal  Academician  (p.  308). — (English- 
man's Magazine,  September  1831.)  George  Dawe,  born  in 
London,  February  8,  1781  ;  died,  October  15,  1829;  buried  in 
St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  His  chief  work,  after  early  years  engaged 
in  historical-painting,  was  in  portrait-painting.  He  was  engaged 


NOTES  403 

by  the  Emperor  of  Russia  to  paint  his  officers  who  had  been 
prominent  in  the  wars  with  Napoleon.  For  this  purpose  he 
started  for  Russia  in  January  1819,  and,  during  a  residence  there 
of  nine  years,  is  said  to  have  painted  four  hundred  portraits, 
which  decorate  a  large  gallery  in  the  Emperor's  Palace,  called 
the  Hermitage  (Redgrave's  Biographical  Dictionary  of  British 
Artists).  Dawe  made  a  large  fortune,  but  seems  to  have  lost 
it  in  imprudent  speculations.  He  was  made  Associate  of  the 
Academy  in  1809  ("  By  what  law  of  association,"  Lamb  wrote 
at  the  time,  "  I  cannot  guess  "),  and  full  Academician  in  1814. 
This  paper  was  Lamb's  first  contribution  to  the  Englishman's 
Magazine,  when  his  friend  Moxon  became  publisher  of  it.  It 
was  arranged  that  Lamb  should  furnish  miscellaneous  papers  to 
appear  under  the  general  heading  of  Peter's  Net.  Lamb  writes 
to  Moxon  in  August  1831  on  the  subject  of  these  Recollec- 
tions : — "  The  R.A.  here  memorised  was  George  Dawe,  whom  I 
knew  well,  and  heard  many  anecdotes  of,  from  Daniels  and 
Westall,  at  H.  Rogers's  :  to  each  of  them  it  will  be  well  to  send 
a  Magazine  in  my  name.  It  will  fly  like  wild-fire  among  the 
Royal  Academicians  and  artists.  .  .  .  The  anecdotes  of  G. 
D.  are  substantially  true ;  what  does  Elia  (or  Peter)  care  for 
dates?" 

Remarkable  Correspondent  (p.  315). — This  letter,  and  the  one 
that  follows  it,  explain  themselves.  They  appeared  in  Hone's 
Every-Day  Book  under  the  dates  May  1  and  August  12.  It 
will  be  remembered  that  George  IV.  was  born  on  August  12, 
1762,  but  that  the  anniversary  was  always  kept  on  the  corre- 
sponding Saint's  Day,  that  of  St.  George,  April  23, — the  day 
which  for  the  same  reason,  oddly  enough,  has  always  been 
claimed  for  Shakspeare's  birthday.  To  both  these  remonstrances 
Hone  appended  a  playful  reply. 

Mrs.  Gilpin  riding  to  Edmonton  (p.  320). — This  short  paper, 
headed  by  a  rude  woodcut  of  a  woman  in  a  poke-bonnet  sitting 
on  a  stile,  appeared  in  Hone's  Table-Book  (1827-28),  voL  ii. 
The  signature  and  the  internal  evidence  of  style  would  snffi- 
ciently  identify  the  author  even  if  Mr.  Frederick  Locker  did 
not  possess  the  original  manuscript  in  Lamb's  unmistakable 
handwriting.  Lamb  was  living  at  Enfield  at  the  time,  and  the 
proximity  of  Edmonton,  combined  with  his  own  and  his  sister's 
experiences  of  the  fields  in  that  neighbourhood,  fully  account  for 
the  playful  romance.  It  hardly  needs  to  be  said  that  the  whole 
thing  is  invention.  The  suggestion  that  the  rude  woodcut, 
obviously  by  one  of  Hone's  stock  caricaturists,  was  "probably 
by  the  poet's  friend,  Romney,"  is  a  stroke  of  humour  that  could 
belong  to  no  one  except  Charles  Lamb. 


404  NOTES. 

Saturday  Night  (p.  322). — From  The  Gem,  a  keepsake  or 
annual  for  the  year  1830.  The  preceding  volume,  for  1829, 
had  been  edited  hy  Thomas  Hood,  and  in  it  had  appeared  a 
short  sketch,  signed  with  Lamb's  name,  but  really  contributed 
by  Hood  himself,  as  a  joke  in  which  Lamb's  love  of  hoaxing 
allowed  him  to  concur. 

The  present  contribution  was  written  to  accompany  an  engrav- 
ing from  David  Wilkie's  picture,  Saturday  Night,  in  which  a 
cottager  appears  washing  her  child's  face,  and  apparently 
rubbing  the  soap  and  water  well  iu  with  her  bare  hand.  An 
old  man,  presumably  the  child's  grandfather,  is  leisurely  strop- 
ping a  razor  in  the  chimney  corner.  It  is  yet  one  more  vivid 
remembrance  of  Lamb's  childish  days  with  his  grandmother  in 
Hertfordshire. 

Thoughts  on  Presents  of  Game,  etc.  (p.  325). — From  the 
Athenaeum,  November  30,  1833.  Lamb's  friend  Chambers — who 
had  made  "  many  hours  happy  in  the  life  of  Elia  " — was  a  fellow- 
clerk  with  him  in  the  India  House  ;  one  of  the  six  who  sat  in 
the  same  compartment  of  the  large  room  in  the  accountant's 
office.  These  compartments  were  called  "compounds."  Lamb 
once  defined  his  compound,  it  may  be  remembered,  as  a  "col- 
lection of  simples." 

A  Popular  Fallacy  (p.  328). — From  the  New  Monthly  Maga- 
zine, June  1826.  Originally  intended,  no  doubt,  to  form  one 
of  the  series  afterwards  republished  in  the  Last  Essays  of  Elia. 

Charles  Lamb's  Autobiography  (p.  331). — Appeared  first  in 
the  New  Monthly  Magazine  for  April  1835,  with  the  following 
prefatory  note : — 

"We  have  been  favoured,  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Upcott, 
with  the  following  sketch,  written  in  one  of  his  manuscript 
collections  by  Charles  Lamb.  It  will  be  read  with  deep  interest 
by  all,  but  with  the  deepest  interest  by  those  who  had  the 
honour  and  happiness  of  knowing  the  writer.  It  is  so  sin- 
gularly characteristic  that  we  can  scarcely  persuade  ourselves 
we  do  not  hear  it,  as  we  read,  spoken  from  his  living  lips. 
Slight  33  it  is,  it  conveys  the  most  exquisite  and  perfect  notion 
of  the  personal  manner  and  habits  of  our  friend.  For  the  intel- 
lectual rest  we  lift  the  veil  of  its  noble  modesty,  and  can  even 
here  discern  them.  Mark  its  humour,  crammed  into  a  few 
thinking  words ;  its  pathetic  sensibility  in  the  midst  of  con- 
trast ;  its  wit,  truth,  and  feeling ;  and,  above  all,  its  fanciful 
retreat  at  the  close,  under  a  phantom  cloud  of  death." 

Mr.  Upcott  was  Assistant  Librarian  of  the  London  Institu- 
tion, and  one  of  the  contributors  to  a  Biographical  Dictionary 
of  Living  Authors  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  1816.  It  may 


NOTES.  405 

have  been  for  a  proposed  new  edition  of  this  work  that  Lamb 
contributed  this  brief  account  of  himself  and  estimate  of  his 
powers  in  1827. 

Letter  of  Elia  to  Robert  Southey,  Esq.  (p.  333). — (London  Maga- 
zine, October  1823.)  The  concluding  paragraphs  of  this  letter, 
lander  the  title  of  "  The  Tombs  in  the  Abbey,"  were  republished 
by  Lamb  in  the  Last  Essays  of  Elia  in  1833.  For  the  origin 
and  history  of  the  letter,  as  a  whole,  I  may  refer  to  my  notes 
on  that  essay.  The  article  by  Southey  which  provoked  it 
appeared  in  the  Quarterly  Review  for  January  1823. 

A  Poor  Child,  an  Exile  at  Genoa. — Leigh  Hunt's  eldest  boy, 
Thornton,  at  that  time  with  his  family  in  Italy.  Leigh  Hunt 
left  for  Italy  in  November  1821,  and  was  absent  from  England 
till  1825. 

/  am  sorry  to  hear  that  you  are  engaged  upon  a  Life  of  George 
Fox.  —  This  idea,  if  ever  entertained  by  Southey,  was  never, 
I  believe,  carried  out.  His  Life  of  Wesley  had  appeared  in 
1820.  It  was  after  reading  this  work  that  a  Wesleyan  minister 
is  related  to  have  murmured,  as  he  laid  it  down,  "Sir,  thou 
hast  nothing  to  draw  with,  and  the  well  is  deep  " — a  profounder 
criticism  on  Southey's  capacity  for  dealing  with  such  subjects 
than  any  to  be  found  in  this  essay. 

There  is  ,  and ,  whom  you  never  heard  of. — The 

blanks  in  the  sentences  that  follow  cannot  all  be  supplied,  but 
most  of  the  initials  belong  to  names  easily  to  be  identified. 
"N.,  my  own  and  my  father's  friend,"  was  Randal  Norris,  the 
Sub-Treasurer  of  the  Inner  Temple;  "  T.  N.  T.,"  Thomas 
Noon  Talfourd,  afterwards  the  judge,  and  Lamb's  executor  and 
biographer  ;  "  W.  the  light .  .  .  Janus  of  The  London,"  Wain- 
wright,  whose  affected  gaiety  and  high  spirits  imposed  upon 
Lamb  and  many  others,  till  convicted  of  forgery  and  murder  ; 
"modest  and  amiable  C.,"  Henry  Francis  Gary,  the  translator 

of  Dante;  "  Allan  C.,"  Allan  Cunningham  ;  "P r,"  Procter, 

better  known  as  Barry  Cornwall;  "A p,"  Thomas  All- 
sop,  author  of  the  Letters,  Conversations,  and  Recollections  of 
Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge;  "G n,"  James  Gillman,  the  sur- 
geon, in  whose  house  at  Highgate  Coleridge  lived  and  died  ; 
"M,"  Mr.  Monkhouse,  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Wordsworth's;  "H. 
C.  R.,"  Henry  Crabb  Robinson,  in  whose  delightful  diaries 
many  an  interesting  anecdote  of  Lamb  and  Coleridge  is  to  be 
found  ;  "  W.  A.,"  William  Ayrton,  the  musical  critic,  and  one 
of  the  first  to  make  the  great  German  composers  popular  in  this 
country,  through  that  admirable  work  The  Musical  Library. 
By  the  courtesy  of  the  present  Mr.  William  Scroop  Ayrton, 


406  NOTES. 

I  possess  copies  of  several  short  notes  from  Lamb  to  his  father, 
chiefly  referring  to  the  weekly  rubber,  in  which  the  Ayrtons 
and  the  Burneys  took  part.  They  are,  for  the  most  part,  written 
in  the  wildest  spirit  of  drollery.  One  may  be  given  as  a  sample, 
especially  as  it  touches  a  national  event  of  July  1821  : — 

"DEAR  AYRTON — In  conseqxience  of  the  august  coronation, 
we  propose  postponing  (I  wonder  if  these  words  ever  met  so 
close  before — mark  the  elegancy)  our  Wednesday  this  week  to 
Friday,  when  a  grand  rural  fete  champ6tre  will  be  given  at 
Russell  House  ;  the  back-garden  to  be  illuminated  in  honour  of 
the  late  ceremony.  Vivat  Regina.  Moriatur  R — x.  C.  L." 

The  Authors  of  Rimini  and  of  the  Table  Talk. — Leigh  Hunt 
and  William  Hazlitt. 

I  wish  you  would  read  Mr.  H.'s  lines. — The  first  stanza  runs 
thus: — 

"  Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee, 

My  little  patient  boy  ; 
And  balmy  rest  about  thee 

Smooths  off  the  day's  annoy  : 
I  sit  me  down  and  think 

Of  all  thy  winning  ways, 
Yet  almost  wish,  with  sudden  shrink, 
That  I  had  less  to  praise. " 

I  stood  well  with  him  for  fifteen  years. — The  precise  occasion 
of  the  breach  between  Lamb  and  Hazlitt  it  might  be  im- 
possible to  discover.  Hazlitt  was  moody  and  sensitive,  and 
unduly  impatient  of  criticism.  It  is  pleasant  to  know  that 
Lamb's  manly  defence  of  his  old  friend  in  this  letter  had  the 
effect  of  restoring  their  old  intimacy  ;  and  when  he  died,  seven 
years  later,  Lamb  was  among  the  friends  who  were  round  his 
bed. 

That  amiable  spy,  Major  Andri. — For  an  interesting  account 
of  the  removal  of  Andre's  remains  to  Westminster  Abbey  in 
1821,  see  Dean  Stanley's  Memorials  of  the  Abbey.  "On  the 
monument,  in  bas-relief,  by  Van  Gelder,  is  to  be  seen  the  like- 
ness of  Washington  receiving  the  flag  of  truce,  and  the  letter 
either  of  Andre  or  of  Clinton.  Many  a  citizen  of  the  great 
Western  Republic  has  paused  before  the  sight  of  the  sad  story. 
Often  has  the  head  of  Washington  or  Andre"  been  carried  off, 
perhaps  by  republican  or  royalist  indignation,  but  more  prob- 
ably by  the  pranks  of  Westminster  boys." 

On  the  subject  of  the  letter  generally,  see  letters  of  Lamb 
to  Bernard  Barton,  July  10  and  September  17,  1823  :  also  letter 
to  Southey  of  November  21,  in  which  the  old  friendly  rela 


NOTES.  407 

tions  are  once  more  established.  "The  kindness  of  your  note 
has  melted  away  the  mist  which  was  upon  me.  That  accursed 
Q.  R.  had  vexed  me  by  a  gratuitous  speaking,  of  its  own  know- 
ledge, that  the  "Confessions  of  a  Drunkard"  was  a  genuine 
description  of  the  state  of  the  writer.  Little  things  that  are 
not  ill-meant  may  produce  much  ill.  That  might  have  injured 
me  alive  and  dead.  I  am  in  a  public  office,  and  my  life  is 
insured.  I  was  prepared  for  anger,  and  I  thought  I  saw  in  a 
few  obnoxious  words,  a  hard  case  of  repetition  directed  against 
me.  I  wish  both  Magazine  and  Review  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 
I  shall  be  ashamed  to  see  you,  and  my  sister  (though  innocent) 
will  be  still  more  so  ;  for  the  folly  was  done  without  her  know- 
ledge, and  has  made  her  uneasy  ever  since.  My  guardian 
angel  was  absent  at  that  time. 

Table- Talk  and  Fragments  of  Criticism  (p.  348). — A  portion 
of  these  were  published  in  the  Athenaeum,  January  4,  1834  ; 
the  remainder  are  culled  from  very  various  sources. 

Elm  to  his  Correspondents  (p.  361).  In  Leigh  Hunt's  Indi- 
cator of  January  31,  1821,  appeared  the  paragraph  referred  to 
by  Lamb.  It  ran  as  follows  : — 

"  The  Works  of  diaries  Lamb. — We  reprint  in  our  present 
number  a  criticism  in  the  Examiner  on  the  works  of  this 
author.  He  is  not  so  much  known  as  he  is  admired ;  but  if 
to  be  admired,  and  more,  by  those  who  are  better  known  have 
anything  of  the  old  laudatory  desideratum  in  it,  we  know  no 
man  who  possesses  a  more  enviable  share  of  praise.  The  truth 
is  that  Mr.  Lamb  in  general  has  performed  his  services  to  the 
literary  world  so  anonymously,  and  in  his  most  trivial  subjects 
has  such  a  delicate  and  extreme  sense  of  all  that  is  human,  that 
common  readers  have  not  been  aware  of  half  his  merits,  nor 
great  numbers  of  his  existence.  When  his  writings  were 
collected  by  the  bookseller  (in  1818),  people  of  taste  were 
asking  who  this  Mr.  Charles  Lamb  was  that  had  written  so 
well.  They  were  answered,  The  man  who  set  the  critics  right 
about  the  old  English  dramatists,  and  whom  some  of  them 
showed  at  once  their  ingratitude  and  their  false  pretensions  by 
abusing.  Besides  the  work  here  alluded  to,  Mr.  Lamb  is  the 
author  of  an  interesting  prose  abridgment  of  the  Odyssey,  under 
the  title  of  the  Adventures  of  Ulysses,  and  has  helped  his  sister 
in  other  little  works  for  children  (equally  fit  for  those  '  of  a 
larger  growth  '),  especially  one  called  Mrs.  Leicester's  School. 
We  believe  we  are  taking  no  greater  liberty  with  him  than  our 
motives  will  warrant  when  we  add  that  he  sometimes  writes  in 
the  London  Magazine  under  the  signature  of  Elia." 

The  second  of  these  replies  to  correspondents  arose  out  of 
the  former.  Very  curious  and  pathetic  is  the  reference  to 


408  NOTES. 

his  alleged  birthplace  in  Princes  Street,  Cavendish  Square. 
Princes  Street,  Leicester  Square,  is  where  Mr.  Bartram  lived, 

who  married  Lamb's  old  love,  Alice  W .     The  whole  paper 

is  a  series  of  mystifications.  Calne  in  Wiltshire  was  not  the 
birthplace  of  Coleridge,  whose  personality  Lamb  adopted  in 
the  Essay  on  Christ's  Hospital  ;  but  Coleridge  did  actually 
live  at  Calne  for  a  time,  in  later  years. 

On  the  Death  of  Coleridge  (p.  365). — This  singularly  touching 
confidence  was  first  communicated  to  the  world  by  Mr.  John 
Forster,  in  a  paper  on  Lamb  contributed  after  his  death  to  the 
New  Monthly  Magazine  in  1835.  It  was  thus  introduced  : — 
' '  Lamb  never  fairly  recovered  the  death  of  Coleridge.  He 
thought  of  little  else  (his  sister  was  but  another  portion  of  him- 
self) until  his  own  great  spirit  joined  his  friend's.  He  had  a  habit 
of  venting  his  melancholy  in  a  sort  of  mirth.  He  would  with 
nothing  graver  than  a  pun  '  cleanse  his  bosom  of  the  perilous 
stuff  that  weighed '  upon  it.  In  a  jest  or  a  few  light  phrases 
he  would  lay  open  the  recesses  of  his  heart.  So  in  respect  of 
the  death  of  Coleridge.  Some  old  friends  of  his  saw  him  two 
or  three  weeks  ago,  and  remarked  the  constant  turning  and 
reference  of  his  mind.  He  interrupted  himself  and  them 
almost  every  instant  with  some  play  of  affected  wonder  or 
humorous  melancholy  on  the  words — '  Coleridge  is  dead. '  Noth- 
ing could  divert  him  from  that,  for  the  thought  of  it  never 
left  him.  About  the  same  time  we  had  written  to  him  to  re- 
quest a  few  lines  for  the  literary  album  of  a  gentleman  who 
entertained  a  fitting  admiration  of  his  genius.  It  was  the  last 
request  we  were  to  make,  and  the  last  kindness  we  were  to  receive. 

He  wrote  in  Mr. 's  volume,  and  wrote  of  Coleridge.    This, 

we  believe,  was  the  last  production  of  his  pen.  A  strange  and 
not  unenviable  chance,  which  saw  him  at  the  end  of  his  literary 
pilgrimage,  as  he  had  been  at  the  beginning,  in  that  immortal 
company.  We  are  indebted,  with  the  reader,  to  the  kind- 
ness of  our  friend  for  permission  to  print  the  whole  of  what 
was  written.  It  would  be  impertinence  to  offer  a  remark  on 
it.  Once  read,  its  noble  and  affectionate  tenderness  will  be 
remembered  for  ever. " 

Prologue  to  Coleridge's  Remorse  (p.  367). — Coleridge's  tragedy 
of  Osorio,  originally  written  in  1797,  was  brought  out  in  a 
revised  shape,  and  under  the  name  of  Remorse,  at  Drury  Lane 
in  1813.  It  had  a  run  of  twenty  nights. 

Prologue  to  Antonio  (p.  369). — Godwin's  play  was  produced 
on  December  13,  1800,  and  hopelessly  failed.  See  letter  of 
Lamb  to  Manning,  December  16,  1800.  See  also  Mr.  Kegan 
Paul's  Life  of  Godwin  for  a  full  account  of  Lamb's  untiring 


NOTES.  409 

efforts  in  his  friend's  behalf.  The  footnotes  to  the  prologue 
are,  of  course,  Lamb's  own,  appended  in  a  letter  to  Manning  of 
December  13. 

Prologue  to  Faulkener  (p.  371). — The  tragedy  was  played  at 
Drury  Lane,  December  16,  1807.  The  subject  of  the  play  was 
taken  from  an  incident  in  Defoe's  Raxana.  See  Kegan  Paul's 
Life  of  Godwin,  ii.  162. 

Epilogue,  to  the  Wife  (p.  372). — Sheridan  Knowles  acknow- 
ledges Lamb's  contribution  to  his  drama  in  the  preface  to  the 
published  edition  in  1 833.  The  Epilogue  was  spoken  by  Miss 
Ellen  Tree,  who  played  the  heroine. 

To  Clara  N.  (p.  373).—(Atherut;um,  July  26,  1834.)  Clara 
Novello,  the  fourth  daughter  of  Lamb's  old  and  valued  friend, 
Vincent  Novello.  When  Lamb  wrote  this  complimentary 
tribute,  she  was  only  sixteen  years  of  age.  She  had  made  her 
first  appearance  in  public  the  year  before,  and  was  already 
singing  (in  this  year,  1834)  at  both  the  Philharmonic  and  the 
Ancient  Concerts.  Lamb  had  probably  heard  her  chiefly  at  her 
father's  house.  Clara  Novello,  afterwards  the  Countess  Gigliucci, 
happily  still  lives,  to  remember  with  pride  her  enthusiastic 
though  unmusical  admirer. 

To  my  Friend,  the  Indicator  (p.  374). — (Leigh  Hunt,  who 
brought  out  the  periodical  in  question  in  1819.)  It  took  its 
name  from  a  fanciful  application  of  the  following  passage  from 
a  work  on  Natural  History  : — ' '  There  is  a  bird  in  the  interior 
of  Africa  whose  habits  would  rather  seem  to  belong  to  the 
interior  of  Fairy-land,  but  they  have  been  well  authenticated. 
It  indicates  to  honey-hunters  where  the  nests  of  wild  bees  are 
to  be  found.  It  calls  them  with  a  cheerful  cry  which  they 
answer ;  and,  on  finding  itself  recognised,  flies  and  hovers 
over  a  hollow  tree  containing  the  honey.  While  they  are 
occupied  in  collecting  it,  the  bird  goes  to  a  little  distance, 
where  he  observes  all  that  passes ;  and  the  hunters,  when  they 
have  helped  themselves,  take  care  to  leave  him  his  portion  of 
the  food.  This  is  the  Cuculus  Indicator  of  Linnaeus,  otherwise 
called  the  Moroc,  Bee  Cuckoo,  or  Honey  Bird." 

Saint  Crispin  to  Mr.  Gi/ord  (p.  374).— Gifford,  the  Editor  of 
the  Quarterly,  was,  as  is  well  known,  in  early  life  apprenticed 
to  a  shoemaker.  Lamb  had  a  special  grudge  against  him  for 
mangling  his  review  of  Wordsworth's  Excursion.  See  note  on 
Lamb's  review  in  the  present  volume. 

In  Tabulam  Eximii  (p.  375). — On  Haydon's  Picture,  the 
Entry  of  Christ  into  Jerusalem.  I  have  corrected  the  text  of 


410  NOTES. 

the  Latin  from  the  copy  given  in  Haydon's  Memoirs,  vol.  ii.  p, 
13.  As  Tom  Taylor  remarks,  this  specimen  of  Lamb's  Latinity 
is  more  monkish  than  classical.  He  probably  meant  it  to  be 
so.  Haydon's  picture  was  exhibited  by  him  in  1820.  See  his 
Memoirs,  i.  399. 

To  Sir  James  Mackintosh  (p.  377). — The  unfortunate  epigram 
that  brought  about  the  final  collapse  of  the  Albion.  See  Elia 
Essay,  "  Newspapers  thirty-five  years  ago. "  The  epigrams  that 
follow  will  not  strike  the  reader  as  having  any  great  merit,  or 
reason  to  exist.  They  appeared  for  the  most  part  in  the 
Examiner,  where  any  stick  did  well  enough  with  which  to  beat 
the  Prince  Regent.  He  tells  Bernard  Barton,  in  1829,  "  Stroll- 
ing to  Waltham  Cross  the  other  day,  I  hit  off  these  lines. 
It  is  one  of  the  crosses  which  Edward  I.  caused  to  be  built  for 
his  wife  at  every  town  where  her  corpse  rested,  between  North- 
amptonshire and  London."  The  epigram,  as  given  in  the  letter, 
exhibits  some  considerable  variations. 

One  Dip  (p.  380). — Archdeacon  Hessey  has  lately  made  public, 
for  the  first  time,  the  very  curious  history  of  this  little  fable. 
It  was  one  of  two  epigrams  written  by  Lamb  for  Archdeacon 
Hessey  and  his  brother,  the  late  Rev.  Francis  Hessey,  when 
schoolboys  at  Merchant  Taylors.  The  subject  for  the  Latin 
epigram  was  "Suum  Cuique,"  and  the  epigram  may  be  found 
in  my  notes  to  the  Essay  "  On  the  Inconveniences  resulting 
from  being  hanged  "  (Lamb's  Poems,  Plays,  and  Miscellaneous 
Essays,  p.  403).  The  subject  proposed  for  the  English  epigram 
was,  "  Brevis  esse  laboro,"  and,  as  Archdeacon  Hessey  remarks, 
"the  adventure  recorded  might  well  have  happened  to  Lamb 
himself."  It  should  be  added  that  the  production  of  these 
epigrams  being  of  regular  and  frequent  recurrence,  the  boys 
were  allowed  and  almost  expected  to  obtain  help  from  their 
friends.  In  previous  editions  of  Lamb's  works,  the  epigram 

will  be  found,  with  the  signature  "  H y,"  but  up  to  the  date 

of  Archdeacon  Hessey's  interesting  paper  in  the  Taylorian, 
it  had  never  been  explained.  "I  have  now  before  me,"  the 
Archdeacon  writes,  "the  copies  of  them  as  they  were  shown  up 
to  the  head-master,  with  the  names  of  J.  A.  Hessey  and  F. 
Hessey  attached  to  them  respectively."  See  letter  of  Lamb  to 
Southey,  of  May  10,  1830. 

Satan  in  Search  of  a  Wife  (p.  381). — Originally  published 
in  a  thin  volume,  with  illustrations,  by  Moxon  in  1831.  It 
seems  to  have  been  the  combined  product  of  reading  Moore's 
Loves  of  the  Angels  and  Coleridge  and  Southey's  Devil's  Walk, 
with  the  crop  of  imitations  to  which  the  latter  poem  gave  rise. 
The  choosing  the  daughter  of  a  tailor,  as  the  lady  who  won 


NOTES.  41 1 

Satan's  young  affections,  is  due  solely  to  the  grim  circumstance 
that  the  cavity  beneath  a  tailor's  shop-board,  into  which  he 
lets  fall  the  portions  of  cloth  which  form  his  "cabbage, "is 
called  in  the  strange  slang  of  the  profession,  his  "  Hell."  The 
verses  are  indeed  but  little  worthy  of  their  author  ;  but  they 
gave  occasion  for  one  of  his  many  and  familiar  acts  of  generosity, 
and  it  is  pleasant  to  take  leave  of  him  with  the  record  of  it. 
Moxon  had  been  forced  to  abandon  the  publication  of  his 
Englishman's  Magazine  for  want  of  support.  Lamb  had  written 
for  it,  and  helped  it  in  all  ways  he  could,  but  in  vain  ;  and  he 
writes  to  his  friend,  October  24, 1831,  commending  his  prudence 
in  not  continuing  the  experiment  longer.  "  To  drop  metaphors, 
I  am  sure  you  have  done  wisely.  The  very  spirit  of  your 
epistle  speaks  that  you  have  a  weight  off  your  mind.  I  have 

one  on   mine — the   cash  in  hand,  which,   as  less  truly 

says,  burns  in  my  pocket.  I  feel  queer  at  returning  it  (who 
does  not  ?) — you  feel  awkward  at  retaking  it  (who  ought  not  ?) 
— is  there  no  middle  way  of  adjusting  this  fine  embarrassment  ? 
1  think  I  have  hit  upon  a  medium  to  skin  the  sore  place  over, 
if  not  quite  to  heal  it.  You  hinted  that  there  might  be  some- 
thing under  £10  by  and  by,  accruing  to  me — Devil's  money" 
(the  allusion  is  to  the  squib  now  before  us),  "  (you  are  sanguine, 
say  £7  : 10s)  ;  that  I  entirely  renounce,  and  abjure  all  future 
interest  in  ;  I  insist  upon  it,  and  '  by  him  I  will  not  name ' 
I  won't  touch  a  penny  of  it  That  will  split  your  loss  one  half, 
and  leave  me  conscientious  possessor  of  what  I  hold.  Less  than 
your  assent  to  this,  no  proposal  will  I  accept  ofc" 


THE  END. 


AINCER'S  EDITION  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 

(By  Arrangement  with  Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Co.,  London.) 

CHARLES  LAMB'S  POEMS,  PLAYS, 
AND  MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 

With  50  Pages  of  Introduction  and  Notes  by  ALFRED  AIN- 

GER,  Editor  of  "The  Essays  of  Elia."     I2mo, 

cloth,  gilt  top.     432  pages.    $1.50. 

"In  this  volume  Lamb's  poems  have  been  chronologically 
arranged,  and  the  reader  can  trace  the  various  events  of  the 
poet's  life  in  his  works."— .V.  Y.  Examiner. 

"  Mr.  Ainger*s  work  has  been  most  intelligently  and  satisfactorily  performed.  The 
edition  is  one  which  may  be  safely  recommended  for  accuracy  and  completeness." — 
Boston  Courier. 

"This  volume  will  give  endless  pleasure  to  thousands — making  Lamb  no  longer  a 
mere  name,  but  a  friend.  Those  readers  who  know  Lamb  as  a  poet  only  by  his  verses, 
few  in  number,  but  of  exquisite  beauty,  will  be  surprised  at  discovering  the  range  of 
his  poetic  power.  The  prose  Essays  in  this  volume  abound  in  delightful  humor." — 
Providence  Journal. 

The  London  Academy  says:  "Last  year  we  had  the  incomparable 
'Ella ' — here  we  get  all  of  Lamb's  miscellaneous  writings  that  he  had 
himself  selected  for  preservation  in  a  permanent  shape.  None  will  ever 
want  a  more  satisfactory  edition  than  this.  For  the  benefit  of  the  cu- 
rious we  must  add  that  Mr.  Ainger  here  prints  for  the  first  time  a  copy 
of  Album  Verses,  written  for  Mrs.  De  Morgan,  and  a  letter  to  Dodwell, 
Lamb's  old  fellow  clerk  in  the  India  House." 


A  NEW  EDITION  OF  (From  New  Plates) 

LAMB'S    ESSAYS   OF  ELIA. 

With  SO  Pages  of  Introduction   and  Notes  by  ALFRED  AINGER.      I2mo,  cloth, 
Silt  top.     JJO  j>a.£es.     ff.JO. 

N.  Y.  Christian  Union  says :  "  The  value  of  this  edition  is  very  much 
increased  by  Mr.  Ainger's  notes,  which  form  by  far  the  best  commentary 
on  Lamb  that  has  been  given  to  the  world.  Mr.  Ainger  is  a  thorough  master 
of  all  information  relating  to  Lamb  and  to  his  work  ;  he  has  studied  all 
the  questions  involved,  looked  up  all  manner  of  obscure  and  out-of-the- 
way  facts,  and  gives  the  essays  in  some  parts  a  much  fresher  meaning." 

THIS  NEW  EDITION  include*  Mr.  Ainger'*  Notes,  of  which  "The  Nation" 
»ay»:  "Are  admirable.  They  fill  nearly  fifty  page*,  and  CONTAIN  A  MASS  OF 
INTERESTING  INFORMATION  ABOUT  LAMB  AND  HIS  WRITINGS  AND 
HIS  FRIENDS.  Bibliographical  detail*  are  given  as  to  the  first  publication  of  the 
Ecsiys  in  Magazines  here  and  there.  Many  obscurities  and  allusions  are  explained, 
•  nd  many  of  Lamb's  mystifications  are  unveiled.  Mr.  Ainger  h-s  had  the  use  of  • 
key  (in  Lamb'*  handwriting)  to  the  various  first  series  of  the  Essays." 

Ctpies  sent  on  receipt  of  price,  charges  prepaid,  by 

A.  C.  Armstrong  &.  Son,  714  Broadway,  New  York. 


CHOICE    STANDARD    WORKS. 

NEW  AND  REVISED  EDITION 

OF 

HALLAM'S  COMPLETE  WORKS, 

With  New   Table  of  Contents  and  Indexes. 

IN  SIX  VOLS.,  CROWN,  8VO,  CLOTH. 
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THIS  UNABRIDGED  EDITION  OF  HALLAM'S  WORKS  COMPRISES 

The  Constitutional  History  of  England,  2  Vols. 
The  Middle  Ages,  Tie  State  of  Europe  During  tlie  Middle  Ages,  2  Vols. 
Introduction  to  the  Literature  of  Europe,  2  Vols* 

REPRINTED  FROM  THE  LAST  LONDON  EDITION,  REVISED 
AND  CORRECTED  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


MACAULAY,  in  his  famous  estimate  of  Hallam,  says:  "  Mr.  Hallam 
is,  on  the  whole,  far  better  qualified  than  any  other  writer  of  our  time 
for  the  office  which  he  has  undertaken.  He  has  great  industry  and  great 
acuteness.  His  knowledge  is  extensive,  various,  and  proiound.  His  mind 
is  equally  distinguished  by  the  amplitude  of  its  grasp,  and  by  the  delicacy 
of  its  tact.  His  speculations  have  none  of  that  vagueness  which  is  the 
common  fault  of  political  philosophy.  On  tht  contrary,  they  are 
strikingly  practical,  and  teach  us  not  only  the  general  rule,  but  the  mode 
of  applying  it  to  solve  particular  cases.  .  .  .  Mr.  Hallam's 
work  is  eminently  judicial.  Its  whole  spirit  is  that  of  the  Bench,  not 
that  of  the  Bar.  He  sums  up  with  a  calm,  steady  impartiality,  turning 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  glossing  over  nothing,  exaggerating 
nothing,  while  the  advocates  on  both  sides  are  alternately  biting  their  lips 
to  hear  their  conflicting  misstatements  and  sophism  exposed.'"' 


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in  6  Vols.,  AVERAGES  NEARLY  800  PAGES  IN  EACH 
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CHOICE    STANDARD    WORKS. 

A  NEW  EDITION 

OF 

D'ISRAELI'S  COMPLETE  WORKS. 

Edited  by  his  Son,  LORD  BEAGONSFIELD, 

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THIS  NEW  EDITION  OF  D'ISRAELI'S  WORKS  COMPRISES 

THE  CURIOSITIES   OF   LITERATURE,  -         -  3  Vols. 

CALAMITIES  AND  QUABRELS  OF  AUTHORS  AND  MEMOIRS,  1  Vol. 

AMENITIES  OF  LITERATURE,  SKETCHES  AND  CHARACTERS,  1  Vol. 

LITERARY  CHARACTER,  HISTORY  OF  MEN  OF  GENIUS,    -  1  Vol. 

A  collection  of  literature  which  no  judiciously  selected  library  will 
fail  to  have,  and  no  person  of  literary  taste  and  culture  willingly  do 
without. 

They  are,  in  truth,  a  history  of  literature  and  of  literary  men, 
gathered  from  the  writings  of  centuries  and  from  living:  authors, 
philosophic  and  learned,  yet  easy  and  fascinating. 

The  Curiosities  of  Literature  treat  of  everything  curious  in  the 

literary  kingdom.  The  formation  of  libraries,  past  and  present,  bibliomania,  the 
oddities  of  authors,  their  labors,  anecdotes,  successes,  failures,  etc.,  containing  a  valuable 
m?*"  of  rare  information. 

The  Amenities  of  Literature  "  is  in  a  different  strain,  and  treats  of 

Language,  the  origin  and  growth  of  our  < 

printing,  the  growtu   ~r  1:* — ' :*~  — 

matters  which  have 

The  Calamities  and  Quarrels  of  Authors  "  contains  an  account  of 

authors'  struggles,  difficulties  and  poverty  as  a  class  *  *  *  teaching  them  iheir  failings 
and  holding  up  the  mirror  for  those  who  may  be  benefited  by  a  view  of  the  difficulties 
which  beset  authors." 

Literary  Character  "  is  probably  the  most  searching  and  distinctive 

treatise  of  its  kind  extant,  made  up,  as  it  is,  from  the  feelings  and  confessions  of  men  of 
genius."  

This  NEW  IMPRESSION  of  the  famous  works  of  the  elder 
D'ISRAELI,  IN  6  VOLS.,  PRICE  $7.50  PER  SET  (formerly 
published  in  9  Vols.  at  $15.00),  has  been  aptly  said  to  com- 
prise the  cream  of  English  Literature  of  Europe  from  the  times 
of  Dr.  Johnson  to  our  own,  and  to  constitute  a  whole  library  in 
themselves. 


ties  of  Literature     is  in  a  different  strain,  and  treats  of 

•igin  and  growth  of  our  own,  the  discovery  and  progress  of  the  art  of 
iwth  of  literature,  its  patrons,  followers  and  builders,  and  of  other 
ve  a  broad  and  general  bearing  upon  the  subject  in  hand." 


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CHOICE    STANDARD    WORKS. 

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THIS  EDITION  OF  MILMAN'S  WORKS,  THOROUGHLY 
REVISED  AND  CORRECTED,  COMPRISES 

The  History  of  the  Jews,  2  Vols. 

The  History  of  Christianity,  2  Vols. 

History  of  Latin  Christianity,  4  Vols. 

DR.  MlLMAN  has  won  lasting  popularity  as  a  historian  by  his  three 
great  works,  HISTORY  OF  THE  JEWS,  HISTORY  OF  CHRISTIANITY,  and 
HISTORY  OF  LATIN  CHRISTIANITY.  These  works  link  on  to  each 
other,  and  bring  the  narrative  down  from  the  beginning  of  all  history  to 
the  middle  period  of  the  modern  era.  They  are  the  work  of  the  scholar, 
a  conscientious  student,  and  a  Christian  philosopher.  DR.  MlLMAN 
prepared  this  new  edition  so  as  to  give  it  the  benefit  of  the  results  of 
more  recent  research.  In  the  notes,  and  in  detached  appendices  to  the 
chapters,  a  variety  of  very  important  questions  are  critically  discussed. 

The  author  is  noted  for  his  calm  and  rigid  impartiality,  his  fearless 
exposure  cf  the  bad  and  appreciation  of  the  good,  both  in  institutions 
and  men,  and  his  aim  throughout,  to  utter  the  truth  always  in  charity. 
The  best  authorities  on  all  events  narrated  have  been  studiously  sifted 
and  their  results  given  in  a  style  remarkable  for  its  clearness,  force  and 
animation. 

MILMAN'S  WORKS  HAVE  TAKEN  THEIR  PLACE  AMONG 
THE  APPROVED  CLASSICS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.  The 
general  accuracy  of  his  statements,  the  candcr  of  his  criticisms  and 
the  breadth  of  his  charity  are  everywhere  apparent  in  his  writings. 
His  search  at  all  times  seems  to  have  been  for  truth,  and  that  which 
he  finds  he  states  with  simple  clearness  and  with  fearless  honesty. 
HIS  WORKS  ARE  IN  THEIR  DEPARTMENT  OF  HISTORY  AS 
VALUABLE  AS  THE  VOLUMES  OF  G  BBON  ARE  IN  SECULAR 
HISTORY.  THEY  DESERVE  A  PLACE  IN  EVERY  LIBRARY  IN 
THE  LAND.  THIS  NEW  EDITION,  in  8  vols.,  contains  AN  AVERAGE 
OF  OVER  900  PAGES  per  volume.  PRICE,  $12.00  PER  SET. 
(Formerly  published  in  14  vols.  at  $24.50  ) 

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CHOICE    STANDARD    WORKS. 

A  HEW  AND  SUPERIOR  LIBRARY  EDITION 
OF 

NAPIER'S  PENINSULAR  WAR. 

FROM  THE  AUTHOR'S  LAST  REVISED  EDITION. 

With  55  Maps  and  Plans  of  Battles,  5  Steel  Portraits  and 

a  Complete  Index.     Elegantly  printed  on  toned paper •, 

strongly  bound  in  extra  cloth. 

PRICE,  $7.50  PER  SET.    (Reduced  from  $12.50.) 

(Bound  in  Half  Calf  extra,  -fj.SO  per  -vol.) 

THIS  NEW  AND  COMPLETE  EDITION  COMPRISES  THE 

History  of  the    War   in    the    Peninsula 

AND  IN   THE    SOUTH   OF   FRANCE,   FROM 
THE  YEAR  1807  TO  1814. 

By  G-E2ST.  W.  F1.  P.  NAPIER. 

IN    5   VOLS.,    CROWN    8VO   (IN  A  NEAT  BOX). 

"  Sir  Win.  Napier's  History  of  the  Peninsular  War  is  the  greatest 
military  work  in  the  English  language,  or  indeed  in  any  language,  not 
even  excepting  the  immortal  commentaries  of  Caesar.  General  ray's 
'  Guerre  dans  la  Peninsule '  is  written  with  vast  ability,  but  is  so  marked 
by  national  jealousy  and  animosity,  that  it  loses  much  of  the  authority  to 
which  it  would  otherwise  be  entitled  from  the  author's  consummate 
knowledge  of  the  art  of  war,  and  his  familiarity  with  the  memorable 
scenes  and  events  he  undertakes  to  describe.  In  these  two  invaluable 
requisites  Sir  Wm.  Napier  was  fully  his  equal ;  while  he  possessed  an 
earnest  love  of  truth,  and  a  spirit  of  lofty  magnanimity,  to  which  we  find 
no  parallel  in  the  French  historian. 

"It  is  creditable  alike  to  Sir  Wm.  Napier  and  to  the  American 
people  that  in  this  country,  this  work  has  passed  THROUGH  SEV- 
ERAL EDITIONS,  THE  ONE  BEFORE  US  BEING  UNQUESTION- 
ABLY THE  HANDSOMEST  AND  THE  MOST  COMPLETE.  To  the 
student  of  History— especially  to  him  who!oves  to  dwell  on  the  roman- 
tic character  of  Portugal  and  Spain— the  marches,  sieges,  and  bat- 
tles of  Wellington's  armies  during  six  long  years,  must  always  pos- 
sess an  interest  which  neither  the  Crimean  war,  nor  the  late  great 
struggle  in  this  country,  can  altogether  efface.  The  soldier  who  is 
devoted  to  his  profession,  and  who  seeks  great  military  principles 
and  examples  for  his  guidance,  will  pronounce  Sir  Wm.  Napier 
THE  MOST  FAITHFUL  AND  THE  MOST  COMPETENT  AUTHOR- 
ITY  TO  BE  FOUND  IN  ANY  AGE  OR  IN  ANY  COUNTRY."-ScoTnsn 
AMBR.  JOURNAL. 

Sent  on  receipt  of  price,  charges  prepaid,  by 
A.    C.    ARMSTRONG    &    SON,  714  Broadway,  New  York. 


CHOICE    STANDARD    WORKS. 

A  NEW  EDITION  OF 

THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  CRUSADES. 

A*.rx    SOO-127O. 
IN  EIGHT  PARTS,  WITH  AN  INDEX  OF  47  PAGES. 

By  JOSEPH  FRANCOIS   MICHAUD. 

And  a  Preface  and  Supplementary  Chapter  by  Hamilton  W.  Mabie. 

3    vols.,    crown   8vo,    Cloth.      $3.75. 

(Bound  in  Half  'Calf  'extra,  $3 per  vol.) 

"The  ability,  diligence  and  faithfulness  with  which  MICHAUD 
has  executed  his  great  task  are  undisputed,  and  it  is  to  his  well-filled 
volumes  that  all  must  resort  for  copious  and  authentic  facts  and  luminous 
views  respecting  this  most  romantic  and  wonderful  period  in  the  annals 
of  the  world." 

This  work  has  long  been  out  of  print,  and  its  republication  is  oppor- 
tune. It  narrates  very  fully  and  in  a  picturesque  and  interesting  manner, 
the  most  striking  episode  in  European  history,  and  will  add  an  invalu- 
able work  to  the  historical  literature  which  has  recently  been  put  into  the 
hands  of  the  reading  public  in  editions  combining  sound  scholarship 
and  reasonable  prices.  Of  the  first  excellence  as  an  authority,  full  of 
romantic  incident,  graphic  in  style,  this  new  edition  of  that  which  is  by 
universal  consent 

THE  STANDARD  HISTORY  OF  THE  CRUSADES, 

will  have  equal  value  for  the  student  and  general  reader. 


RIVERSIDE    EDITION   OF 

MACAULAY'S    ESSAYS, 

Critical,  Historical  and    Miscellaneous,     With  a  Biographical  and 

Critical  Introduction  from  the  well-known  pen  of  Mr.  E,  P. 

Whipple.    3  vols.,  crown   8vo,  Cloth,  3,000  pages. 

With  a  fine  Portrait  on  Steel.     Price,  $3.75. 

(Bound  in  Half  Calf  extra,  $3  per  vol.) 

In  this  edition  the  essays  have  been  arranged  in  chronological  order, 
so  that  their  perusal  affords,  so  to  speak,  a  complete  biographical  portrait- 
ure of  the  brilliant  author's  mind.  It  contains  the  pure  text  of  the  author 
and  the  exact  punctuation,  orthography,  etc.,  of  the  English  editions. 
•    A  very  full  index  (55  pages)  has  been   specially  prepared  for  this 
edition.   In  this  respect  it  is  superior  to  the  English  editions,  and  wholly 
nlike  any  other  American  edition. 

Sent  on  receipt  of  ptice,  charges  prepaid. 
A.   C.  ARMSTRONG  &  SON,  714  Broadway.  New  York, 


*=»  i^  O  c 


